Painting The Darkness (55 page)

VII

Before his elevation to the Bench, Lord Coleridge had served his turn at the Bar with great distinction. One of his many triumphs was to have defended a celebrated action superficially similar to the one he was currently presiding over: that of the so-called Tichborne Claimant. Perhaps aware that this had given him something of a reputation as an exposer of imposture, he went to considerable lengths to ensure that his summing-up in this case should be a model of impartiality. If Lord Coleridge had made up
his
mind for or against the plaintiff, nobody could have gleaned as much from the day and a half during which he analysed and summarized the evidence for the benefit of the jury. At length, he sent them out to consider their verdict with less in the way of specific direction than those familiar with his career could ever recollect him conferring.

In the late afternoon, the court was recalled, but only to hear that the jury wished to continue their deliberations overnight. They were dispatched to a hotel, whilst those anxiously awaiting their verdict were left to pass the night with what patience they could muster.

VIII

The night was of that clammy oppressiveness only an English midsummer can conjure up. In the garden of Richard Davenall’s Highgate home, there was neither breath of wind nor shaft of light to break the dark and humid spell. Nor, now midnight had passed, was there any sound to distract James Norton from thoughts of the morrow as he sat in the rose-clad arbour, smoking cigarette after cigarette as the hours of his vigil drew slowly on. No sound, that is, till a footfall on the gravel path alerted him to the presence of another member of the household for whom sleep had proved elusive.

‘Good evening, Richard,’ James said quietly, as the familiar figure of his host came into shadowy view. ‘Or should I say good morning?’

‘I couldn’t seem to rest,’ Richard replied. ‘The heat, you know.’

‘Cigarette?’

‘I believe I will. Thank you.’ Richard normally smoked nothing beyond an after-dinner cigar. He stood by the arbour for several minutes, smoking in silence, then said: ‘We have come a long way, have we not, James, since you presented yourself at my offices last Michaelmas?’

‘I could not have come so far without your help.’ In the shadow of the arbour there was no way of telling what expression accompanied James’s words.

‘Be that as it may, you have been proved right and I wrong.’

‘In what way?’

‘I thought Hugo would see reason, but he has not.’

‘Ah, I see. In that way.’

‘Tomorrow, I think he will have to.’

James drew on his cigarette, the tip brightening in the darkness as he did so, then said: ‘You ought to know that, on Sunday, I visited Mother and appealed to her to call the case off.’ He paused, as if waiting for Richard to react. Then, when Richard said nothing, he added: ‘I didn’t expect her to agree there and then, but I felt I had to make the effort. In the event, I’m not sure it didn’t do more harm than good.’

‘She refused outright?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was Hugo present?’

‘No. I called at a time when I thought he would be at the club. I felt what chance there was lay in seeing Mother alone.’

‘Did she speak about Hugo at all?’

‘No.’

‘I ask because I bumped into Freddy Cleveland in Piccadilly one day last week. He
did
speak about Hugo. And what he said I found rather disturbing.’

‘In what way?’

‘Cleveland’s not one to take anything too seriously, as you know. But he seemed genuinely worried by Hugo’s state of mind, concerned at the effect the trial’s had on him. He commented on how depressed Hugo’s been since his spell in the witness-box.’

‘It’s scarcely to be wondered at, Richard. The trial’s been an enormous strain for all of us.’

‘But you are strong and resilient. Hugo isn’t. You know how weak he really is. How do you think he will react
to
losing the case? Everything – his money, his title, his property – will be gone. How will he cope?’

James said nothing. There was indeed every reason to doubt Hugo’s capacity to bear the loss he might be about to suffer, and Richard, more than anyone, was bound to worry about the consequences, but both men knew the only way James could spare Hugo was to sacrifice himself. And that he was not about to do.

‘What I’m saying, I suppose, is that I’d like to think you won’t be hard on him because of his foolish conduct towards you. You have it in your power to destroy him. What I’d like to think is that you’ll be generous in victory.’

‘You have my word on it. Whatever his faults, Hugo remains my brother. If I win, he will be provided for.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say so.’

‘But you’re assuming the jury will find in my favour. What if they find for Hugo? Would he be … generous in victory?’

There was a lengthy silence, during which both men contemplated the question in the blankness of the night. Then, when the need to give an answer had almost passed, Richard said solemnly: ‘No. He would not.’

IX

The Royal Courts of Justice: Wednesday, 18th July 1883. The seventy-seventh and final day of the trial of
Norton versus Davenall
. Nothing in the courtroom or its occupants signalled that the day was different from all the tortuous others through which the case had wound its length. Nothing in the wigged and stooping practitioners of the Law or their crammed and craning audience denoted that this was the end. Yet so it was.
Norton versus Davenall
had run its course.

The jury entered and took their seats. Beyond the normal level of fidgeting and shuffling, they and all their
observers
detected a shocked and faintly ill-prepared dimension to the proceedings. Even though the issue had been carefully debated for more than three months, its enormity seemed only now to have been borne in upon them. One man, the plaintiff, would, in a matter of minutes, be transformed from the calmly polite figure to be seen whispering to his counsel into one of two things: a wealthy and vindicated aristocrat or a vile and contemptible impostor. In the same space, another man, the defendant, presently darting back to his seat with a tousled look of nervous anticipation, would either be restored to a life of untroubled ease or prised loose from his very name.

The jury settled. None of them had the look of a wild romantic or crazed anarchist. On the contrary, all were made of dull and stolid stuff. Yet what they were about to do was inescapably dramatic. The foreman, a tubby, bespectacled, tweed-suited fellow, adjusted his glasses and consulted some notes with which he must already have been well familiar.

Lord Coleridge entered. The court rose and then subsided, with his Lordship, into its place. The judge, at least, seemed unmoved by the occasion. He nodded to the clerk to proceed. As if on wires, the foreman of the jury bobbed up from his seat.

‘Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?’

‘We are.’

‘And is it the verdict of you all?’

‘It is.’

‘How say you, then, in this case? Do you find for the plaintiff or the defendant?’

‘We find for the plaintiff.’

Chapter Sixteen

I

SHORTLY BEFORE ELEVEN
o’clock on the morning of Wednesday, 18th July 1883, James Norton ceased to exist and James Davenall resumed a life suspended. The cheer that went up in the court when the jury found in his favour was almost as much one of astonishment as of acclamation. His victory had been predicted by many, but, now the moment of its announcement had arrived, the meaning of what he had achieved burst on their minds with the force of a revelation. The so-called Davenall Claimant had become Sir James Davenall in truth and in law. Against all odds, despite all doubts, in the face of all opposition, he had won. Everything he had ventured he had gained. Everything he had claimed he had been granted.

No sooner had the judge confirmed the jury’s verdict and closed the case with a few formal words than the well of the court exploded in a confused and jostling mass of figures. Within seconds, the plaintiff was mobbed by more supporters than he can have been aware of having. Strangers were slapping his back and shaking his hand, journalists were shouting questions in his ear. Sir James himself, however, as if overwhelmed by the significance of what had occurred, said nothing in reply to the flood of congratulations. He seemed bemused, ill-prepared, uncertain how to react.

Then, at sight of Constance Trenchard threading a path to his side, his expression changed. As he reached out to
clasp
her hand, a smile came to his lips that left no room for doubt: she was the one person with whom he wished to share his triumph. Taking her arm in his, he led her calmly towards the exit, looking neither to right nor to left. This, his bearing implied, was the richest of all the prizes he had won that day: this was what made it all worth while.

Later, during the brief privacy of a cab-ride from the Courts to Staple Inn, where Warburton was to host a celebration for those who had contributed to the victory, Sir James asked Constance Trenchard to marry him as soon as she was free to do so. She accepted without hesitation and he, for his part, promised never to desert her again. In the rapture of a re-discovered love, they spoke only of the future they would spend together. The past – and those in it who might still have calls upon them – they were happy to forget. For the past, they felt sure, they had escaped for ever.

The welter of publicity which attended the sensational conclusion of the case of
Norton versus Davenall
faded with surprising speed. The newspapers tired of the new baronet once he had made it clear that he would neither give interviews nor sign articles trumpeting his victory for the entertainment of their readers. Within a few weeks, the world went a long way towards doing what it seemed he wanted them to do: forget him.

Not that it was hard to understand Sir James’s desire for privacy. Overnight, he had become the owner of a fine London residence, a large country house, a lucrative portion of the Somerset coalfield and a sizeable estate in the west of Ireland. The Council of the Baronetage had formally welcomed him to their ranks, the Davenall family banker to his doors. He had become a wealthy man. All his problems were behind him. Of publicity he had no need.

Perhaps this also explains why Sir James showed himself to be such a magnanimous victor. He made no swift
or
unreasonable demands on those of his family who had opposed him. He refrained from any move that might smack of vengeance. It was not, indeed, until early August that he asked his cousin Richard to convene a meeting with Warburton, Baverstock and Lewis in order to arrive at a final settlement of the dispute. Even then, the terms he proposed were more generous than they needed to be. When he visited Richard at his Holborn office to hear the outcome, he could reasonably have expected to hear that his offer had been gratefully accepted.

‘As far as litigation goes,’ Richard announced, ‘it’s certainly over. The judge stipulated, you may remember, that an appeal could only be considered if there were new evidence. Lewis candidly admits there is none.’

‘Good. What of the rest?’ Here, however, the surprises began.

‘Your mother rejects the idea of remaining at Cleave Court, just as she rejects the proposed allowance. She wishes to be beholden to you for nothing. She intends to move out immediately.’

‘To go where?’

‘Baverstock said she plans to rent a smaller property somewhere. Anywhere, I gather, so long as it isn’t on land you own.’

Lady Davenall’s refusal to compromise, even in defeat, was, in its own way, admirable. The conduct of the case had evidently ensured there could be no reconciliation between them. ‘So it’s come to that,’ said Sir James, sounding more disappointed than surprised.

‘I fear so.’

‘And Hugo?’ His brother’s response to generosity was more predictable. Greed and weakness might have induced him to accept what jealousy and his mother’s disapproval should have forbidden him to consider.

‘He will be out of Bladeney House by the end of this month.’

‘But the allowance?’

‘I don’t know. Baverstock hedged. But the first payment’s
been
made. Either Hugo hasn’t noticed – or he grudgingly accepts. One thing is certain, however. There can be no healing of the breach. Neither Catherine nor Hugo wishes to see either of us, under any circumstances.’

‘I’m sorry for your sake, Richard. I know you hoped the end of the case would be the end of the feud, but there was never any real chance it would be. Mother went too far in denying me to turn back now. And Hugo went with her.’

Richard sighed. ‘So it seems.’ Then he sighed again, in a different vein: the vein of a man settling for the best there was to be had. ‘One thing the meeting did achieve. There are no longer any obstacles or objections to your control of the property and investments Gervase willed to you. From this day forth, they are yours to dispose of as you see fit.’

It was strangely subdued, this final conferral, this last word of ratification. Less than a year before, James Norton had stepped off the boat from America as a penniless stranger. Now, as Sir James Davenall, he stood high amongst the moneyed and well-born of the land. ‘I remain more grateful than I can say, Richard, for your efforts on my behalf. I hope I can continue to rely upon you.’

Richard smiled. ‘I have done no more than duty obliged me to do. I know you spoke of asking me to assume administration of your financial affairs, but—’

‘It is what I earnestly wish.’

‘Then, I would be honoured to do so. There is much to be attended to.’

‘For the present, I must leave it all in your hands.’

A crestfallen look crossed Richard’s face. ‘You don’t intend to play an active part?’

‘Eventually, yes. But the trial, as you predicted, has been a draining experience. I feel the need of a long rest. Constance has agreed to accompany me on a Continental tour: it is the change of scene we both need. We will take Emily with us’ – he smiled – ‘by way of chaperone.’