Painting The Darkness (67 page)

‘An inheritance, I believe. An uncle in New Zealand left him a tract of gold-bearing land.’

Gow nodded. ‘They peddled me that one, too. I’m having it checked. Frankly, I don’t expect to find there’s any truth in it.’

‘Then, what do you suggest?’

‘I spoke to Sir James’s mother earlier, sir. She told me Quinn was dismissed from the family’s service for stealing. Also, it appears my colleagues from the Metropolitan Constabulary had their eye on Quinn in connection with a series of housebreakings. Did you know that?’

‘No.’ As he said it, Richard knew he was taking a risk. It was possible, albeit barely so, that Roffey’s informant at Scotland Yard had told Gow of his interest in Quinn.

‘Did Sir James ever express dislike of Quinn?’

‘Not that I can remember.’

‘Did he mention him at all in recent months?’

‘Not to me.’

Suddenly, Gow rose to his feet. ‘Well, we’ll leave it at that for the present, sir.’ He smiled. ‘Unless you can suggest why Sir James should have murdered Quinn?’

‘I don’t believe he did, Inspector.’

‘No. Naturally not. You’ll be sure to let us know if Sir James contacts you, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ He moved towards the door, only to stop halfway as if he had just remembered something. ‘By the way, sir, where do
you
stand over Sir James’s identity?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I followed the case like everybody else. It was plain to me this morning that the dowager Lady Davenall regards Sir James as an impostor, despite the verdict of the court. You testified on Sir James’s behalf, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘So may I take it that you have no doubts that the court’s decision was correct?’

‘None at all, Inspector.’ What was the man driving at? Richard wondered during the silence that followed. What warped recondite theory was he forming to explain the inexplicable?

‘Thank you, sir,’ Gow said after a pause. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ And, with that, he left Richard to the company of his own unavailing thoughts.

V

That evening, at Cleave Court, Constance retired early to bed, ostensibly so worn out by anxiety that she proposed to take another dose of Dr Fiveash’s sleeping draught in the hope of a restful night. The truth, however, as became apparent once she had locked the bedroom door behind her, was otherwise.

The news of Quinn’s murder had, in a curious way, relieved her mind. She had feared, until then, that James had met with a fatal accident. Now, in the suspicions of Inspector Gow, another possibility had taken shape, a possibility which implied that James was very much alive and well. If so, he would be relying on her to remain loyal to him in his absence, and she was determined not to let him down. Knowing that Gow proposed to return on the morrow and that he might well wish to search her husband’s possessions, she had decided that, if he did, he would find nothing to strengthen his case.

Late on Christmas afternoon, Escort had brought in a letter for James whilst he and Constance had been having tea. James had opened the letter, read it, then tucked it away in his pocket. He had made no comment on it, nor had he told Constance who it was from. She, for her part, had expressed no interest in it. A trifling note from the estate manager, she had assumed, in so far as she had assumed anything. Now, however, the incident had acquired a sinister colour.

Stepping into James’s dressing-room, Constance opened
the
wardrobe and ran her eye along the racks of coats and blazers. There it was: the burgundy smoking-jacket he had been wearing on Christmas afternoon. She reached into the nearest pocket – and felt the letter, folded at its base.

The envelope bore only James’s name, with neither address nor postage stamp. This was as she would have expected, for there had been no deliveries on Christmas Day. The letter must have been dropped in by hand.

James had opened the envelope with his thumb: the flap was torn jaggedly across. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded once. Constance noticed how much her hand was shaking as she held the note up to read.

Be at the Dundas aqueduct at half-past eight tomorrow morning. Do not fail me this last time. M.

There could be no doubt. It was to keep this rendezvous that James had left the house so early on Boxing Day. The handwriting suggested what Constance least wished to believe: that ‘M’ was a woman. Yet, if this were a secret assignation, why leave the evidence there for her to discover? And why was this to be the
last
time?

Returning to her bedroom, folding and refolding the letter in her hands, Constance rehearsed the possibilities in her mind. Perhaps James knew ‘M’ from his years in America: he had always been reticent about the friends he had made there. Perhaps he had jilted her, or she him. Perhaps she had heard of his new-found wealth and status and come to England to exploit their former intimacy. All this, however dreadful, was infinitely preferable to any other explanation she could think of. James would have met ‘M’ in secret rather than have her berate him in public. He would have done so to spare Constance, not to spite her. The choice of a meeting-place which meant so much to both of them would merely have been an unfortunate coincidence.

Yet, if this was true, why had James not returned? Had ‘M’ some way of forcing him to accompany her? Surely
not
, for ‘M’ herself had called it ‘this last time’. It smacked more of a farewell than of a confrontation.

Constance took a deep breath. She must be brave, she must be resolute: she must stand by James until he could stand before her in person and explain himself. Everyone else would place the worst possible construction on such a note. Therefore, they must never see it. Tearing the envelope and its contents into four, Constance cast the pieces into the fire and finished with the poker the work that the flames began.

VI

As Richard Davenall descended the stairs of Garth House, Highgate, on the morning of Friday, 28th December, he wondered with bleak foreboding, what the newspapers would have to say about the murder of Alfred Quinn and the disappearance of Sir James Davenall. He himself no longer doubted what the two events in some way signified – that James was not who he claimed to be – but, if only for Constance’s sake, he hoped that the outside world had not yet reached the same conclusion.

Richard, like many an ageing bachelor, was a creature of habit. He therefore restrained his curiosity about the newspapers long enough to tap the barometer, which told him the cold spell was set to continue, and leaf through the morning mail, left by Braddock on the small table halfway along the hall. It was as well that he did so, for otherwise he would not have seen the third letter in the pile as soon as he did. It caused him to catch his breath and stand for a moment utterly bewildered, for it was addressed to him in what he instantly recognized as James’s handwriting.

Richard’s desire to open the letter at once was overwhelmed by his highly developed faculty of caution. Only several minutes later, in the privacy of his study, did he dare to read what James had written.

My dear Richard,

By the time you receive this letter, I will be out of the country. It is quite possible, given the purpose of my journey, that I will not return alive. Since I would not wish to die with a lie on my conscience, I propose to lay before you certain facts which I know I can trust you to act upon when and if the time comes.

In view of the doubts which you have recently entertained concerning my identity, you may wish to know that, in pursuing my claim to the baronetcy, I merely pursued what was rightfully mine. In seeking to alienate Constance from her husband, however, I pursued what was rightfully another’s. At first, I freely admit, I did so in order to win Constance’s public support of my claim. There seemed no one else to turn to in view of my family’s refusal to acknowledge me. Later, however, I came to love her and to believe I could win her for my wife.

I knew Constance would stand by her husband, whatever her feelings for me, unless he behaved so outrageously that she felt compelled to desert him. Yet Trenchard was, by his lights, a decent and faithful man. To lure him into self-destruction, it was necessary to make him believe I was an impostor, whose elaborate conspiracy he alone could unravel.

So, Richard, I am telling you what I suspect you have already concluded from those many visits to Trenchard of which you thought me unaware: he is as sane as you or I. He followed a trail I laid for him. He behaved as I hoped he would. He was indeed the victim of delusions, but delusions I devised for him.

Of my accomplices and their methods I will say nothing. They must answer for themselves. But I would not wish Trenchard to languish for ever in an asylum because I had died without confessing my part in his downfall. As my cousin and my friend, as a man of the law and a man of honour, I call upon you to bring these facts to the attention of the authorities.
William
Trenchard is no madman. Nor, in trying to kill me, did he do more than I can readily excuse. He should be given back his liberty.

Trenchard’s deception is the only part of all this I regret. For the rest I make no apology. It has been as it was bound to be. And it will end the same way.

Ever Yours,

James

‘It is quite possible … that I will not return alive.’ What was he going to do? ‘For the rest I make no apology.’ What, for that matter, had he already done? There was no address or date on the unheaded notepaper, no hint in its wording of where it had been written or when.

Richard picked up the envelope and peered at the postmark. Tonbridge, Kent, 8 p.m., 27 December. So he could only have left the country the night before. But why Tonbridge? What could have taken him there?

Richard moved unsteadily to the bookcase and pulled down a copy of the South Eastern & Chatham Railway timetable. At the back was a route map and what it showed him added another contradiction to James’s letter. If he had been heading for Dover by train, in order to leave the country by the quickest route, he might well have passed through Tonbridge, but he would scarcely have stopped there long enough to post a letter.

Then it came to him. Five stops down the Hastings line from Tonbridge was Ticehurst Road. That is what had taken James there. He had been to see Trenchard. He had travelled to Ticehurst, returned as far as Tonbridge and there caught a train to Dover and a night sailing for the continent. And, at the last possible moment, he had entrusted Richard with the means to put right a long-standing injustice.

VII

When Escort told her that Miss Pursglove had called to see Constance, Emily felt more irritated than she knew she conscientiously should. After all, Sir James had restored the dear soul to Weir Cottage and it was therefore understandable that she should wish to express her concern about his disappearance. Emily feared, however, that the old lady’s twittering solicitude could only distress her sister in the present circumstances and she therefore went to speak to her with every intention of bustling her, gently but quickly, off the premises.

‘Constance is resting and cannot be disturbed, Nanny,’ she began, stating the simple truth. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

‘This is not a social call,’ Miss Pursglove replied, her insistent tone seeming to confirm as much. ‘It concerns Sir James.’

Emily smiled indulgently. ‘I’m sure you’re just as worried as—’

‘I saw him, Miss Sumner! I saw him
after
he left Cleave Court on Boxing Day morning.’

In a trice, Miss Pursglove’s presence had been transformed from inconsequence into momentousness. Emily ushered her into a chair and implored her to explain.

‘I only had the news from Constable Binns yesterday, my dear. Until then, I’d have thought … well, as you shall hear, I’d have thought Sir James was here with his wife, as providence intended. It only goes to show—’

‘When did you see him, Nanny?’

‘Boxing Day morning, my dear, as I said. It must have been some time between eight o’clock and half-past, because it was only just light. I was at my gate, calling for Lupin, when Sir James came walking along the lane from the railway bridge. He bade me a cheerful good morning and said he had a mind to take a stroll along the towpath as far as the aqueduct. He seemed in handsome good spirits. I asked him in for a cup of tea and a bite of breakfast, and
he
said he’d be happy to accept but must have his stroll first. He said I should expect him back in half an hour. Then he walked on up the lane towards the canal. I felt sure he’d return as he said, but he didn’t. After an hour or so, I supposed he’d forgotten all about me and gone straight home. Well, it would have been understandable enough. It was only yesterday I learned that that’s not how it was at all. Where did he go, Miss Sumner? That’s what I want to know. Whatever became of him?’

‘I don’t know, Nanny,’ Emily replied, helpless to explain to her own satisfaction, never mind Miss Pursglove’s, why James Davenall should have vanished for the second time in his life. ‘Nobody knows.’

VIII

‘So your cousin has a conscience after all,’ Trenchard said, handing the letter back to Richard. ‘I suppose I should be grateful.’

It was not the reaction Richard had expected. He had sat often enough with Trenchard, comfortably confined in his private suite of rooms at Ticehurst Asylum, to know the frustrated longing for justice and retribution which consumed him and had shown, in over a year, no sign of abating. So why, when handed the means by which he might be vindicated, had he responded in so subdued a fashion? Why, for that matter had he referred to James as Richard’s cousin, something he would normally have refused to do?

‘It seems,’ Trenchard continued, ‘that I was wrong, but not in the way everybody thought. Well, I’m glad it’s to come out at last.’

‘You’re taking this very calmly, I must say.’

‘I’ve learned patience here if I’ve learned nothing else. By losing my head now, I’d only spoil my chances of release.’

‘Did you know he would write this letter?’ That, Richard
had
begun to think, must explain Trenchard’s composure: James had visited him in order to forewarn him.