Painting The Darkness (51 page)

But Catherine was unmoved. Her certainty was
unarguable
, her implication clear that, by this one service, Plon-Plon could win back her respect. ‘If we share what we know of her, Prince, I believe we can find her. The question is therefore a simple one. Will you help me?’

An hour had passed since Catherine’s departure. Plon-Plon peered from the window once more and winced at sight of the scaffolded shell of the mausoleum. Was this domed and crenellated monument to a redundant dynasty so much worthier a life’s work than his own random brilliances? He thought not. But he, as ever, was in the minority.

Forty years ago, in Madrid, Eugénie had flirted with the bullfighters and ridden bareback through the streets; she had smoked his cigars and dressed like a gypsy. Now she wore dresses that looked like shrouds and sat in darkened rooms studying plans of the mausoleum with its architect. If he were to win her over, his only reward would be the offer of a shelf for his own coffin.

So why not? Why not quit Farnborough and embark on the grandest folly of his life? Not because his dead friend’s proud and pitiless widow had abased herself to plead with him. Nor yet because the sheer impudence of Norton’s fraudulent claim irked him by the envy it inspired. Not even because he wished to look on Vivien Strang’s face once more and win from her some form of absolution. No. He would not seek her out for any of those reasons. He would seek her out because he wanted to. He would find her in order to prove that he could.

IV

Nanny Pursglove’s testimony was more effective than it had been at the hearing. Clearly, she still resented the suggestions made then that her memory and eyesight were suspect. Accordingly, she set about proving that they were not by a display of unflagging vigour during two
days
in the witness-box. Gilchrist was unable to make the slightest impact, and her eviction from Weir Cottage, skilfully introduced into her evidence by Russell, at once ensured her of the jury’s sympathy.

As for Dr Fiveash, equivocal though he might be, he could say little that did not strengthen the plaintiff’s case. There were times when he seemed to be pinned on the horns of several dilemmas, uncertain how much or how little to reveal. At one point, indeed, he seemed inclined to claim that his records had been spied upon, but Russell succeeded in strangling the idea at birth.

‘Who do you suggest could have done such a thing, Doctor?’

‘A temporary secretary whom I employed in January of last year.’

‘Interesting. Why did you take her on?’

‘My permanent secretary was injured in a cycling accident.’

‘How could this
spy
have known such a vacancy would arise?’

‘I can only think the accident was … contrived. The bicycle may have been … tampered with.’

‘Did you have cause to think so at the time?’

‘Ah … no.’

‘And why should such a …
spy
… have thought there was anything to be found in your records, given that, according to your previous testimony, nobody knew James Davenall had even consulted you?’

‘I … cannot account for that.’

‘I see. Well, thank you, Doctor, for raising this interesting, if remote, possibility. I feel sure the jury will know how to regard it.’

Dr Fabius, being so much more eminent than Fiveash and possessed of an altogether more confident manner, rounded off the medical evidence in a way which, from the plaintiff’s point of view, could hardly have been bettered. Fiveash had asserted that the symptoms of syphilis were unmistakable and that a spontaneous recovery from
the
disease was impossible, but Fabius refuted both contentions.

‘Even with my specialist experience, I would not be confident of correctly diagnosing syphilis on every occasion. It often appears in disguise. Similarly, it may vanish altogether for no apparent reason. It is
le feu follet
of diseases. It is deceptive, misleading, unpredictable. There is nothing certain about it.’

‘You cannot say, then, Doctor, whether my client has recovered from syphilis or has never suffered from it at all?’

‘I cannot. All I can say is that he does not suffer from it now.’

‘How did he react when you told him this?’

‘Like a man reprieved from a prison sentence. Like a man told he may live again.’

Not like a man who knew what you would say before you said it?’

‘I hardly think so.’

As the eighth week of the trial ended, the defence had still to make an impression. Norton was riding high.

V

The slats at Plon-Plon’s end of the bench reacted with a discomforting jerk to the arrival of a second waiting passenger. He, too, was large and lugubrious in appearance and, like Plon-Plon, anxious to be on his way.

‘She’s late,’ he said irritably.

Plon-Plon did not respond. His companion had already aroused his suspicions by the expensive but tasteless cut of his overcoat. Now the coarse but swaggering tone of his voice convinced him that he was dealing with an example of one of the types he most detested: the
nouveau riche
.

‘What brought you tae Dumfries, then?’ An answer, had Plon-Plon cared to give one, would not have been easy to frame. The only sure facts known to Catherine Davenall
about
the origins of Vivien Strang were that she had been born in Dumfries, the daughter of a local draper. Now, gazing across the railway line at the grey roofs of this grudging little town, Plon-Plon reflected without pleasure on the attempt he had made that day to explore those origins.

Broom Bank, the house where Vivien Strang had been born, was tall, angular, raw-stoned and dour, comfortlessly perched in bedraggled gardens high about the River Nith. Plon-Plon had to wait for a long time in the sunless porch before the doorbell was answered.

‘Moncalieri,’ he announced, doffing his hat to the moon-faced maid. ‘Jerome Moncalieri.’

‘Goodness!’

He pondered for a rueful moment the mystery of why only the commonest women seemed impressed by him, then said: ‘I would very much like to speak to your mistress.’

‘Which one?’ came the gape-mouthed question. Plon-Plon was at a loss for an answer. Fortunately, the maid went on: ‘There’s only Miss Effie – Mistress Euphemia, that is – at home.’

‘Then, Mistress Euphemia it is.’

‘Well … I don’t know … I shall have tae ask … What … what shall I say your business is?’

‘Personal – and urgent. I have come a long way.’

That, he reflected during the slow-moving minutes for which he was left in the porch, was no word of a lie. A long way, a long time … and perhaps he should never have come at all.

The maid returned, marginally less flustered than before, and showed him in. Soon he was alone again, in a high-ceilinged drawing-room at the back of the house, furnished after the fashion of a crowded junk shop he had passed on his way from the station, smelling of camphor, hassock-covers and new bread.

The door opened to admit a tiny, slight, panting creature
clad
all in quivering pink. ‘I am Euphemia Strang,’ she said, mincing towards him. ‘I believe you wanted to see me.’ She gazed up at him with huge dormouse eyes and extended a delicate trembling hand. ‘
Signor
Moncalieri?’

According to Catherine, Vivien Strang had spoken of having two sisters: this, he concluded, must be one of them. He stooped, kissed her shrivelled knuckles and looked up to find her blushing a deeper pink than her dress. ‘Charmed, Mademoiselle, to make your acquaintance.’

‘You are not … Italian?’

He smiled. ‘French.’

‘Oh.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Well … would you … care for some tea?’

‘That would be delightful.’

Tea was duly served, whilst Plon-Plon engaged his hostess in conversation. This was not difficult, for, whatever he said, Miss Strang merely cocked her head and stared at him in rapt awestruck attention, never once pressing him to explain his visit, apparently for fear that it might be cut short. Midway through his second cup of tea and his third slice of Dundee cake, he decided he could prevaricate no longer.

‘I fear I must turn, Mademoiselle, to the reason I called here this afternoon.’

‘Oh … yes?’

‘It concerns your sister.’

‘Lydia?’

‘Your
other
sister.’ Euphemia Strang’s eyes extended still further their phenomenal circumference. ‘Vivien.’

‘You know … Vivien?’

‘I knew her many years ago. Alas, we have since lost contact. I hoped you might be able to put me in touch with her.’

‘How many … years ago, Monsieur?’

‘More than thirty.’

‘1846 perhaps?’

‘As a matter of fact—’

‘Euphemia!’ The voice was harsh and censorious. It came from a tall, stiff-backed, lean-faced woman in grey who had entered the room without their noticing and stood now by the door, glaring across at them. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

Plon-Plon rose and essayed a charming smile. ‘Mademoiselle Lydia, I presume?’

‘Correct. Who are you, sir?’

‘Moncalieri. Jerome Moncalieri. Your sister has made me—’

‘Leave us, Euphemia! I will speak to this gentleman alone.’

Her tone left no scope for protest and reduced Euphemia to a state of mute trembling obedience. She had scuttled from the room before Plon-Plon was properly aware she had gone.

‘Kindly state your business, sir.’

It was at once obvious to Plon-Plon that Lydia Strang lacked all her sister’s susceptibility to charm. ‘I came to enquire about your sister Vivien.’

‘I have only one sister. She has just left this room.’

‘Come, come. Vivien Strang—’

‘I know nobody by that name.’

‘You grew up with her. It is absurd to deny it.’

Lydia Strang’s narrow mouth tightened. ‘I must ask you to leave this house, sir. At once.’

‘All I want to know is where she is.’

‘I told you. She does not exist.’

‘She bore a child out of wedlock. Is that why you disown her?’

A searching intensity came into Lydia’s hostile eyes. ‘Did Euphemia tell you so?’

‘No. I knew it already.’

At that, her resolve faltered, though only slightly and only for an instant. ‘You will be so good as to explain yourself, sir.’

‘I am anxious to locate your sister Vivien. I am not interested in old scandals. I do not wish to cause you any
embarrassment
. I merely wish to know Vivien’s current whereabouts.’

A curl came to Lydia’s thin lips that could have denoted satisfaction. ‘It scarcely matters. We do not know where she is. We do not know whether she is alive or dead. We do not care. Our father, may the Lord preserve his memory, expelled her from this house and this family thirty-seven years ago. He sent her away, a harlot, to seek her Babylon. From that day forth, she ceased to be our sister.’

‘She was found to be pregnant and she was turned out. Is that how it was?’

‘You may phrase it so if you wish. Now, please leave.’

‘Very well, madame. I will leave. But you would do well to remember: every harlot was a virgin once.’

‘So. Were you here for business – or pleasure?’

Plon-Plon’s companion on the railway station bench was not to be deterred.

‘Could’nae be pleasure, though. Not in this town. Business, then. Successful?’

‘No,’ said Plon-Plon, relenting at last. ‘Not successful.’

‘A wasted journey, then?’

‘Yes. A wasted journey.’

VI

The dignity which Constance Trenchard brought to her testimony inspired respect on all sides. She endured Gilchrist’s sarcastic and often offensive cross-examination with nobility and restraint. Perhaps because of this, Gilchrist’s attempt to impugn her honour proved his greatest error.

‘I put it to you, Mrs Trenchard, that you acknowledged the plaintiff as James Davenall because you saw in doing so, a way of extricating yourself from an uncongenial marriage.’

‘I acknowledged him because not to have done so would have been false, deceitful … and wrong.’

‘But is it not true that you have recently instituted divorce proceedings?’

‘Yes. I have.’

‘And is it not also true that, should you succeed in those proceedings, you will marry the plaintiff?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘But there is an understanding between you to that effect?

‘Objection, my Lord! My learned friend is encouraging the witness to incriminate herself in an unrelated action.

‘Objection sustained.’

‘As your Lordship pleases. Mrs Trenchard, is your
present
husband a wealthy man?’

‘We are comfortably placed.’

‘But you would be more comfortably placed as the wife of
Sir
James Davenall?’

‘How can I say?’

‘It must have crossed your mind.’

‘It has not. This has nothing to do with money. If it had, I would have awaited the outcome of this case before suing my husband for divorce, would I not?’

Gilchrist ignored the question but, by doing so, rendered it all the more effective. English juries do not enjoy the spectacle of well-bred young ladies being bullied by venal barristers. Their displeasure at this would quite eclipse, it was thought, any prejudice on the subject of divorce. It would ensure that their sympathy was reserved for Mrs Trenchard – and hence for Norton.

VII

The morning did spring full justice, which was rare in Plon-Plon’s experience of London, but its perfection failed to lift his spirits. Walking through Hyde Park, he had taken some brief pleasure from the riot of birdsong and
blossom
, but after crossing Park Lane and starting along South Street he had remembered his destination and all his false, vicarious good cheer had vanished.

He had not wanted to meet Florence Nightingale in 1854 and he did not want to meet her now, but Vivien Strang had been one of her nurses all those years ago and might still be known to her today. Thus, though a selfless young heroine who had grown into an idolized old maid was the last person whose acquaintance he wanted to make, he found himself ascending the steps of the famous Miss Nightingale’s house and knocking at the door.

It was opened by a commissionaire, a tall lantern-jawed old man with a crumpled cock-eyed expression which could have been either kindly or forbidding.