Painting The Darkness (54 page)

As soon as he had climbed out and paid the fare, he began glancing across the crowded thoroughfare to check if the pair were still where he had seen them. They were. Then, as he struggled to find a safe route to the other side, they separated, Norton marching smartly away westwards whilst the lady began walking slowly in the opposite direction.

By the time Plon-Plon had reached the south door of the cathedral, Norton had vanished and the lady was thirty yards or so away. He began to follow her. She cast the newspaper she had been carrying into a wayside bin and quickened her pace, so that Plon-Plon had difficulty keeping up. Then, as she reached the corner of the street ahead, she stepped into a cab that must have been waiting
for
her. The traffic was lighter here than on the other side of St Paul’s, and the cab made off northwards at a clip. Plon-Plon pulled up and swore under his breath.

Then he noticed the newspaper, protruding from the bin alongside him. He plucked it out and ran his eye over the page at which it had been folded open, finding there the normal diet of accidents, inquests and burglaries. It was an evening paper, dating from several days before. He was about to discard it when he saw the headline over one article:
TRENCHARD DIVORCE
.

Mr William Trenchard, whose father Lionel is chairman of the Trenchard & Leavis retail stores company, has been divorced. His wife Constance, of The Limes, Avenue Road, St John’s Wood, was today granted a decree nisi in the Admiralty, Probate and Divorce Division by reason of her husband’s insanity; she was also granted custody of their five-year-old daughter. It will be recalled that Mr Trenchard was implicated in a murderous assault on 7th November last on Mr James Norton, the so-called Davenall Claimant. Charges against Mr Trenchard were subsequently waived in exchange for undertakings that he be confined to a lunatic asylum. Dr John Bucknill, the eminent psychiater, stated at this morning’s hearing that his patient—

‘Good afternoon, Prince.’

Plon-Plon swung round to find Norton standing only a few feet away, smiling gently and drawing on a cigarette. His smile had less the appearance of a greeting than of amusement at a private joke.

‘Rooting in dustbins? Scarcely an imperial trait, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

Plon-Plon could feel his face colouring with irritation. ‘Who is she?’ he snapped.

‘I don’t know who you mean.’

‘
La belle jeune fille
. You were talking to her a few moments ago by the door of the cathedral.’

‘Not I.’

‘I saw you.’

‘You were mistaken.’

‘What is she to you? You were discussing the Trenchard divorce, weren’t you?’ He held up the newspaper. ‘Why?’

Norton stepped closer; his eyes narrowed. ‘I thought we agreed when we last met, Prince, that you would do well to steer clear of my affairs.’

Plon-Plon tossed back his head and squared his shoulders. ‘You seek to frighten me with an old scandal? It will not work a second time, monsieur.’

‘It is a sad and sordid tale. You do not emerge from it with credit.’

‘Yours, monsieur, is the greater danger. You are Vivien Strang’s son, are you not?’

Momentarily, Norton seemed taken aback. ‘You think that?’ Then his composure returned and, with it, the goading smile. ‘You may harbour a whole fleet of suspicions if you wish, Prince. But what can you prove? Nothing.’

‘You are
not
James Davenall.’

‘How is Cora these days? Have you seen her recently? I take it she has not come to share this latest of your many exiles. Do you remember when you both stayed at Bladeney House in November 1870? I do. I remember it very well indeed. One night, when Papa had taken you to the club, Cora offered … Well, perhaps it is best that you should not know what she offered.’

‘You think you are very clever, monsieur. You think you can deceive everyone. Maybe you are right. But be warned: no man is infallible. Sooner or later, you will make a mistake. Just one is all that is necessary. When you make it, the world will know you for who you really are.’

With that, Plon-Plon thrust the newspaper back into the bin and walked quickly away, reassembling as he went the fragments of his dignity. Norton
le menteur
, Norton
l’imposteur
: what did it matter to him? Forget the man, he told himself, forget the Davenalls and all you know of them. It should not be difficult: a Mediterranean cruise
might
do the trick. He hurried on, his determination growing with every tread to leave England and, this time, never to return.

Norton finished his cigarette and watched Plon-Plon’s bulky shape vanish into the crowd beyond St Paul’s. He was alone now, with nobody to see him pluck the newspaper from the bin, glance at the article headed trenchard divorce, then toss it back amongst the rubbish. Nor was there anybody to hear what he murmured to himself as he crushed out the cigarette beneath his foot. ‘Just one mistake, eh, Prince? Just one. Perhaps you’re right.’ He exhaled the last of the smoke. ‘Perhaps I’ve already made it.’

V

The later defence witnesses were pure anticlimax. Fiveash was recalled, in order to emphasize that he did not recognize Norton as his former patient. Once again, however, an equivocal vein in all that he said told against him. Emery, his Harley Street friend, completed the medical evidence. Under cross-examination, he was obliged to admit the truth of what Fabius had said: that nobody could tell for certain whether the plaintiff had suffered from syphilis or not.

Whether Freddy Cleveland intended to introduce a comic note into the proceedings was not clear, but, by seeming to change his mind from minute to minute as to whether Norton was James Davenall or an impostor, he weakened the defence case still further. Borthwick and Mulholland appeared on cue: both insisted the plaintiff could not be James Davenall, both denied trying to trick him when they had met on Parliament Hill.

Assorted artists, photographers and physiognomists expressed the considered opinion that the plaintiff was not the James Davenall who had posed for the camera
in
Christ Church cricket teams and graduation robes, but Russell forced all of them to concede that they could equally well be wrong. A graphologist argued that the plaintiff’s handwriting, though similar to examples of James Davenall’s that he had studied, was not identical. Russell extracted from him an admission that handwriting could feasibly change in the course of time and altered employment.

After the scientists came the tradesmen: hatters, shirt-makers, tailors, glovers and bootmakers. Few had kept written records. Thus their fallible memories of collar sizes and leg measurements, in so far as they were at issue with the plaintiff’s, scarcely comprised an effective challenge.

At last, in the fourteenth week of the trial, the defence concluded its case. Russell’s closing speech followed – a brilliantly effective appeal to the jury to disregard the trifling points made against his client and to concentrate on one issue and one issue only: did they believe the plaintiff was James Davenall or not?

VI

A Sunday evening in Chester Square, the mellow rays of the setting sun contriving, as they glinted through the drawing-room windows of Bladeney House, to deepen Catherine Davenall’s trance of melancholy. She had stayed with Hugo since Easter, forgoing all the pleasures of spring and summer at Cleave Court so that he might have her presence to fall back upon whenever his courage failed. She had attended the court every day, had scarcely missed an hour of its proceedings, had sat passively but a few yards from her son’s tormentor, had bided her time and held her peace. Now, with the moment of decision finally at hand, she felt weary of the whole dispute, drained by the exertions her determination had driven her to. Tomorrow, the judge would commence his summing-up. Tomorrow, or the next day, he would send the jury
out
to consider whether James Norton could henceforth call himself her son, evict her from her home, seize her property, appropriate all the wealth and status that she and Hugo had hitherto enjoyed. It was too much – for a jury to decide or for a mother to face.

There was a tap at the door, and Greenwood came in. Normally the calmest and most self-effacing of men, he appeared now red about the cheeks and flustered in his bearing.

‘A gentleman, ma’am … desires to see you.’

‘Who is he?’

Greenwood seemed to have difficulty in answering. ‘Mr … Norton, ma’am.’

For a moment, Catherine said nothing. It was nearly ten months since Norton had called on her at Cleave Court. What could he want now? Hugo was at his club, bolstering his spirits in Freddy Cleveland’s fatuous company. Did Norton know that she was alone, on this last evening before whatever end lay in store for both of them? Is that why he had come? She looked up at Greenwood, taking care he should catch no glimpse of her secret turmoil. ‘Show Mr Norton in.’

As soon as the door had closed, she rose and moved to the window. She must appear perfectly composed, grave to the point of severity. Standing just so, with the light behind her, regally self-possessed, was how she would receive him. She forced herself to stop winding her finger in the locket chain about her neck, breathed deeply and imposed the authority to which her emotions had always given best.

Greenwood reappeared, announced Norton and was gone again, leaving them to face one another in absolute silence. He would be unable to see her expression clearly, Catherine reminded herself, yet one might be forgiven for inferring, from that clear-eyed confident stare of his, that he saw her more clearly than she would ever have wished. She broke the silence.

‘Why have you come here?’

He smiled faintly. ‘No fonder words than those, Mother, for your long-lost son?’

She spread her hand across the antimacassared back of a chair and paused long enough to quench any anger his words had inspired. ‘We are quite alone, Mr Norton. There are no witnesses, no spies, no eavesdroppers. There is no need to continue the pretence for my benefit.’

‘Then, why continue your own pretence? You know who I am. You knew from the moment you set eyes on me.’

‘You are
not
James.’

‘The court will say differently.’

‘That remains to be seen.’

He took a few steps into the room, glancing about at the pictures and furnishings. ‘Fewer alterations here than you’ve made at Cleave Court,’ he said musingly. ‘I remember it all so well.’

‘Spare me your well-rehearsed performance, Mr Norton. Why have you come?’

He stopped and looked directly at her. ‘Because it’s not too late, Mother, to—’

‘Don’t call me that.’

He dipped his head in a gesture of obedience. ‘Very well, though the world will soon call you so on my behalf. I came here this evening to appeal to you. Why not give it up? Why not concede my claim before the court forces you to do so? There’s still time. Tomorrow, at a word from you, our lawyers could meet to agree terms.’

‘Terms?’ She looked at him disbelievingly. ‘What terms could there possibly be, short of abject surrender by one side or the other?’

‘There could be … an accommodation. I demand my rights, naturally, but I’ve no wish to be vindictive. I don’t want to put Hugo in the poorhouse or you out of Cleave Court. After what’s happened, it’s hard to imagine we could live together as one happy family, but there are ways and means …’

‘Those are the terms of which you speak?’

‘Yes. You may find the alternatives … less pleasant.’

‘What alternatives?’

‘You have the money Papa settled on you, of course, but it’ll not keep you and Hugo in the manner to which you’re both accustomed. I mention Hugo because he’ll be wholly dependent on you. All that he has will be mine before the week is out. All of mine that he has already spent he will be required to repay. He will have nothing left. And I don’t see my brother as the self-sufficient type. Do you?’

‘It isn’t any of that you wish to avert, Mr Norton. You simply want to be let off the hook. When this case ends in your defeat, you will face a charge of perjury. All you will have gained, before the week is out, is a cell in Newgate Prison.’

He smiled. ‘I rather think I might be granted bail.’ Then he grew serious again. ‘As you say, the stakes are high for all concerned. I knew that, of course, when I decided not to blacken Papa’s name in court. Believe it or not, I did so for the sake of our family. It’s in the same spirit that I’m appealing to you not to fight me, all the way, to what can only be a bitter end.’

‘Then, you are appealing in vain, Mr Norton. There will be no surrender, no compromise of any kind. Even if the court is mad enough to uphold your claim, I will still find some way to defeat you.’

‘There is no way, Mother.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to have offended you by using that name again, but there it is: in a few days, you will have to accept me as your son,
Sir
James Davenall.’

‘Never.’

‘Is that your final word?’

‘No. My final word is for your mother, Mr Norton. Your real mother, that is: Vivien Strang.’

Norton frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Tell her this. I admit I wronged her. But she’ll find revenge brings a poor reward. The price of forcing you on me is that she can never claim you. She’ll have to stay forever hidden, forever apart. If she should once try to see
you
, be assured I will know of it. Then I will find her. And, when I do, I will show her no mercy.’

‘You speak in riddles, Mother. Vivien Strang is nothing to me, nothing but a distant figure from a discreditable past. She has no bearing on the present. She has no part in what you have forced me to do.’

‘You have your answer, Mr Norton. Is that all you came for?’

‘If you change your mind—’

‘I won’t.’

He bowed his head in courteous acknowledgement of her decision. ‘Very well. I will bid you good night. We will meet again soon – on my terms.’

She watched him leave the room and listened to the front door close behind him. So he was gone, not with what he had come for but with more than she should have let him have. She had said too much, revealed too great a hatred. Yet why not? What difference, now, could it possibly make? Norton was right in one thing if in nothing else. Before the week was out, the struggle would be over and with it, perhaps, the life she had lived till now. It could not be altered. It could not be prevented. It must run its course and find her ready, dignified and waiting. Norton might win his case, but never her admission of defeat. He might be called her son, but never by her.