Painting The Darkness (42 page)

He leaned forward and kissed her. The touch of his lips on hers bore her back eleven years to a summer-time parting above an aqueduct in Somerset, closing her eyes to everything save the memory-hazed meadow of a lost love restored. But his eyes were open and what they saw, in all its irresistible clarity, was a future he had not till then dared even hope for.

V

The afternoon attendance in the Vice-Chancellor’s Court at Lincoln’s Inn was disappointing. Some zest seemed to have gone out of the proceedings, some feeling to have gained ground that the case was, after all, too flimsy to deliver the red meat of a long and bitter encounter. It was rumoured, indeed, that the plaintiff had no more witnesses to speak for him and that only a succession of stern-faced friends of the Davenalls could now be expected, wearing down his impertinent claim with the dreary attrition of their denials.

As soon as Mr Justice Wimberley took his seat, however, the mood changed. Something unusual was clearly afoot, for Mr Russell approached the bench and engaged the judge in earnest whispered debate. At length, a vast judicial sleeve was flapped at Sir Hardinge Giffard by way of invitation to join the huddle. Having accepted the invitation, Sir Hardinge began to shrug his shoulders and gesticulate in expressions of dissent. Then Mr Justice Wimberley waved them both away and addressed the court.

‘The plaintiff has asked if he may call two additional
witnesses
from whom sworn affidavits have not yet been obtained. In consideration of the significance which may now attach to their testimonies, I exceptionally grant the request.’

This announcement prompted an outbreak of anxious whispering on the defence side. Slicing through it came Mr Russell’s raised voice. ‘I call Mrs William Trenchard.’

Trenchard? The name meant nothing to those enjoying such unprecedented elbow room in the public gallery. Its mystery gripped their attention and clamped it on to the slim elegant lady in grey and lilac who now made her way slowly to the box. Her hair was chestnut brown, her face pale: that much could be made out beneath the feather-trimmed hat. The rest, since she looked so resolutely ahead, seemingly unaware of the court from which she had just stepped, was guesswork.

‘You are Constance Daphne Trenchard of The Limes, Avenue Road, St John’s Wood?’

‘I am.’ The voice was low but firm, subdued but unwavering.

‘How long have you been married, Mrs Trenchard?’

‘Seven years.’ She had begun massaging what appeared, beneath her glove, to be a ring on the third finger of her left hand.

‘Were you engaged to be married eleven years ago to James Davenall?’

‘I was.’

‘Do you recognize the plaintiff as your fiancé of that period?’

Without hesitation, though strangely without emphasis: ‘Yes.’

‘Whom you believed, until recently, to have committed suicide in June 1871?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did you realize that he was, in fact, still alive?’

‘When he visited me on Sunday the first of October.’

‘That was the first inkling you had of his return?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you acknowledge him on that occasion?’

This time, there was a momentary hesitation. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I was unprepared for such a shock and because my husband persuaded me that I might be mistaken.’

‘Had your husband ever met James Davenall before?’

‘No.’

‘Then, how could he know whether you were mistaken or not?’

‘It was what he wished to believe.’

‘My Lord, I object!’ Giffard lurched from his seat. ‘Witness is being asked to speculate.’

Mr Justice Wimberley frowned. ‘May a wife legitimately speculate about her husband’s wishes? A moot point, Sir Hardinge. Mrs Trenchard’ – he turned to the witness – ‘Are you here today with your husband’s knowledge and consent?’

‘With neither, my Lord.’

The judge raised his eyebrows. ‘With neither? Dear, dear. Had I known that … Well, proceed, Mr Russell, but refrain from further questions about Mr Trenchard.’

‘As your Lordship pleases. Now then, when next did you meet the plaintiff?’

‘In Somerset, six days later.’

‘Did you acknowledge him on that occasion?’

‘No. But what lingering doubts I had were finally dispelled.’

‘How?’

‘James – the plaintiff – was able to recall events of which only he or I could possibly know. Lovers’ secrets, you might say.’

This indelicate phrase prompted a snigger towards the back of the court. Mr Justice Wimberley reddened and glared threateningly in its direction, then motioned for Russell to continue.

‘Your next meeting with the plaintiff?’

‘Hyde Park, six days later, by prior arrangement.’

‘Did you acknowledge him then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yesterday, the plaintiff declined to say whether you had acknowledged him or not. Do you now state unequivocally that you did?’

‘Yes. He is James Davenall.’

‘Mrs Trenchard,’ the judge interposed, ‘do I take you to mean that you have been certain of the plaintiff’s identity since – if I have it right – the seventh of October?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Why have you not come forward before?’

‘My husband forbade me to do so.’

‘Why have you disobeyed him, then?’

‘To prevent a miscarriage of justice.’

‘I understand from Mr Russell that no subpoena has been served on you. Am I to conclude that you are here entirely of your own volition?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Out of a concern … for justice?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

The judge seemed nonplussed. ‘Are you aware, Mrs Trenchard, that in the evidence he gave to this court yesterday the plaintiff openly admitted’ – he cleared his throat – ‘consorting with prostitutes before and during your engagement?’

The answer came without hint of embarrassment. ‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘And that the plaintiff gave as his reason for disappearing the apparently well-founded belief that he had contracted syphilis as a result of consorting with prostitutes?’

‘I am aware of everything he said, my Lord. None of it makes me wish to turn my back on him. Quite the reverse.’

Before the determination, bordering on fervour, that resounded in this last phrase, Mr Justice Wimberley fell back in silent confusion. He nodded feebly to Russell.

‘I have no further questions, my Lord.’

Mr Russell sat down and Sir Hardinge Giffard rose, with
a
brooding crouched reluctance, to take his place. An age seemed to pass before he spoke, but during it the witness’s composure, the grave still dignity with which she had confounded the judge, did not falter.

‘Mrs Trenchard’ – his voice seemed thickened by an ill-suppressed emotion – ‘how many times have you met the plaintiff?’

‘Since his return?’

‘Since his
supposed
return.’

‘On four occasions.’

‘You have described three of them. When was the fourth?’

‘Just before I came into court this afternoon.’

‘He sought assurances from you that you would testify on his behalf?’

‘No. As a matter of fact, he sought no such assurances.’

A snarl of sarcasm crossed Giffard’s face. ‘No doubt he pleaded with you
not
to testify.’

‘No. He could see that I was determined to do so.’

A snort from Sir Hardinge, a prowl back to the registrar’s table, then a switch of attack. ‘Mrs Trenchard, are you happily married?’

Russell bobbed to his feet, but Mr Justice Wimberley had already taken the point. ‘I have indicated, Sir Hardinge, that I wished no allusions to be made to Mr Trenchard, a gentleman evidently unaware that his marriage is being anatomized here today.’

‘I believe it to be germane, my Lord.’

A drumming of judicial fingers, then: ‘I will need to be swiftly persuaded of that.’

‘Thank you, my Lord. Mrs Trenchard, are you happily married?’

For the first time, the witness’s gaze dropped. ‘This is not a happy time for my husband and me.’

‘How long has it been an unhappy time?’

‘I hardly know—’

‘Since your former fiancé’s magical return from the dead – or longer? I put it to you, Mrs Trenchard, that your
sudden
conversion to the plaintiff’s cause is born not of a concern to see justice done, but of a desire to hurt your husband.’

Stung by Giffard’s words, the witness looked up sharply. ‘That is unworthy and untrue.’

‘Nevertheless—’

‘Sir Hardinge!’ Mr Justice Wimberley leaned forward. ‘I am not persuaded that this
is
germane. You will redirect your questions.’

Giffard bowed before the irresistible. ‘As your Lordship pleases. Mrs Trenchard, have you any doubts as to the plaintiff ’s identity?’

‘None.’

‘None at all?’

‘I am convinced that James Davenall is alive and seated as plaintiff in this court.’

At that, Giffard gave it up. He subsided into his chair with an ill-concealed sigh of resignation. He did not look up as Mrs Trenchard passed him on her way back to her seat, nor when Mr Russell barked out the name of the next witness above the hubbub of whispering.

‘I call Mr Richard Davenall.’

The whispering died instantly. This was sensation piled upon sensation. The Davenalls had hitherto held their peace, arrayed anonymously behind a blanket rejection of Norton’s claim. Now one of them was to break that silence. All eyes were turned upon him.

‘You are Richard Wolseley Davenall of Garth House, North Road, Highgate?’

‘I am.’ He was a darkly clad, sombre, stooping man with grey hair and beard, watery blue eyes that blinked with tell-tale rapidity and a shifting uncertain stance. Whispering welled in the public gallery: surely he was none other than Sir Hugo Davenall’s solicitor.

‘What relation are you to James Davenall?’

‘He is my first cousin once removed.’

‘Do you recognize the plaintiff as your cousin James Davenall?’

‘I do.’ That said, the witness seemed visibly to relax. He pulled back his shoulders and looked squarely ahead.

‘Without question?’

‘Without question.’

‘How long have you been convinced of his identity?’

‘That is not easy to say. The conviction has grown on me steadily since he visited me at my place of work on the morning of the twenty-ninth of September. During the intervening weeks, I have thought long and hard about my memories of James and about the appearance, knowledge and behaviour of the plaintiff. I have now come to the conclusion that he is indeed my cousin James.’

‘He looks like your cousin?’

‘He looks older, naturally. He also looks … well, changed by his experiences. At first, the extent of those changes made me doubt him. Now I believe they are only to be expected in view of all that he has undergone.’

‘He is entirely familiar with your family’s history?’

‘Yes.’

‘He knows all that you would expect your cousin to know?’

‘Yes.’

‘He behaves as you would expect him to behave?’

‘Yes.’

‘In short, he is the cousin you remember?’

‘Yes, I believe he is.’

‘Thank you, Mr Davenall.’

When Sir Hardinge Giffard rose to cross-examine the witness, he glared at him from close quarters as if personally affronted by his testimony. ‘Mr Davenall, I do not recollect being called upon to question a witness in such extraordinary’ – he pronounced each syllable of the word with exaggerated precision – ‘in such
bizarre
circumstances in my entire career.’

‘The circumstances are not of my making.’

‘There I must beg to disagree. Have you been subpoenaed by the plaintiff?’

‘No.’

‘Then, perhaps you would care to explain why you, Sir Hugo Davenall’s solicitor, have volunteered to testify in a manner injurious to his defence and directly contrary to his interests.’

‘Because to defend this action is to fly in the face of reason. I
am
serving Sir Hugo’s interests, by doing my best to ensure that he takes its defence no further.’

‘Ho, ho.’ Giffard rolled his eyes and ambled malevolently back to the registrar’s table, then turned to stare levelly at the witness. ‘How long have you practised as a solicitor, Mr Davenall?’

‘Twenty-one years.’

‘Have you ever done anything like this before?’

‘Anything like what?’

‘Like seeking to sabotage a client’s case, like leading a client to believe you are his servant and friend, then, without the least hint of a warning, betraying him? Well? How many clients would have come to you, had they known that was your stock-in-trade? How many will come to you, now they do know?’

‘My Lord, I object!’ cried Mr Russell, rising from his seat. ‘Is my learned friend suggesting that the witness should not tell the truth because it may damage his practice?’

‘Well, Sir Hardinge?’ said the judge. ‘Is that what you are suggesting?’

‘No, my Lord. I am suggesting that a man who, only this morning, appeared in this court as a convinced and trusted adviser to the defence can hardly now decry that defence without both his character and his testimony being regarded as inherently unreliable.’

The witness looked up at the judge. ‘May I answer that accusation, my Lord?’

Mr Justice Wimberley frowned for a moment, then said: ‘By all means, Mr Davenall.’

There was nothing hunched and equivocal about the witness now. When he spoke, it was in a firmer, clearer voice than he had used before. ‘Sir Hardinge knows I have been unhappy about defending this action from its outset.
Indeed
, he commented on the fact himself. Well, I do not deny being compromised by my past indecision. I could – perhaps I should – have declined to act as Sir Hugo’s solicitor when I realized I could not share his certainty that the plaintiff was an impostor. But I thought it best that he should be advised by a member of his own family, rather than by a stranger. After all, this
is
a family matter. I had the honour to be retained by Sir Hugo’s father as his solicitor and hence as guardian of the legal interests of
all
his children. As such, it grieves me more than I can say that one of those children should feel obliged to fight the other in open court. But, if I am forced to choose between them, as I feel forced by these proceedings, then I can, in honour, employ only one criterion: the truth.’