Painting The Darkness (8 page)

Regarding his client with studied indifference across his desk, Warburton found himself unable to deny a considerable admiration for James Norton – whoever he really was. Had Norton been defending himself against criminal charges rather than proposing a civil action against the Davenall estate, Warburton might even have recommended him to represent himself. The man was so fluently plausible, so demonstrably honourable, that nobody ignorant of the facts could doubt his word for a moment. As for those not so ignorant, only time would tell whether Norton’s confidence that he could win them over was justified. For the moment, Warburton listened with awe to the man’s account of himself and his alleged predicament. He began to list in his mind those barristers whom he might approach to handle the case, for, unlike his client, he was sure it would come to court before the Davenalls would yield; it would require nothing less than a QC, he felt, but, with the right one, there would not be a dry eye in the jury-box. Already, his own grittily arid mind’s eye saw how it was likely to be – and the prospect was inviting.

Less than half a mile away, though it might have seemed further through the fetid air of Holborn that morning, Richard Davenall was poring over precedents and regretting his earlier shortness of temper with the clerks. Sir Hugo had declined to discuss their tactics for the examination, preferring to spend the day at the races with Freddy Cleveland, and there had been no opportunity to compare notes with Baverstock. He therefore had no one in whom he could confide his misgivings about the event. Sir Hugo seemed to see it as an opportunity to scupper Norton once and for all, but Norton had been under no obligation to agree to such a meeting, so why had he done
so
? And what, he could not help but wonder, what did Catherine Davenall really believe?

What indeed? There would have been no way of telling from her calm progress through the day at Cleave Court. A little estate management in the morning, a meeting in Bath of one of her beneficent committees in the afternoon. No troubled pilgrimage to the Davenall vault in the village church to commune with the soul of her late husband. No prolonged audience with Baverstock to clear his cluttered mind. No pause, no haste, no space for doubt to visit any part of her fixed and private mind.

Equal placidity might have been found at Esme Pursglove’s cottage, where the only drama of the day was Lupin stabbing his paw with a cactus spine. As a matter of fact, Miss Pursglove had been told nothing of what was intended, but, even had she been, it would not have discomposed her. Her faith in her former charge was immaculately unquestioning. He could be trusted in any crisis, however pressing. Meanwhile, there were paws to be patched.

At The Limes, St John’s Wood, Mavis Hillier was growing increasingly fretful at the unmistakable signs of domestic disharmony: the master testy and inclined to come and go at all hours, the mistress withdrawn, uncommunicative and manifestly out of sorts; even Burrows had complained that he could accomplish little in the garden if Mrs Trenchard was to be forever mooning about the flower borders. The contagion had spread to Patience, whose recent fits of temper were as uncharacteristic as they were unsettling, and Hillier had agreed with Cook that such an awkward atmosphere was not to be tolerated for long. Precisely what they would do if it did persist was not specified. Instead, they consoled each other by sharing the succulent game pie in which their employers had expressed such little interest at Monday dinner.

At Newbury racecourse, Freddy Cleveland’s fancies were proving, as Sir Hugo Davenall often found, expensively fickle. Ordinarily, he would have laughed at another lost
wager
, cast the fragments of his betting-slip to the ground and proposed a gentle restorative in the bar. Today, however, he would have had to admit that a little honest long-odds luck would not have gone amiss. In its absence, he could not even vent his sarcasm at Cleveland’s expense because of the presence of their distinguished guest: a tall, immensely stout Frenchman whose entirely proportional vanity had to be flattered in every particular if his hostility to Norton was to be relied upon. One of these particulars was the maintenance of his ludicrous alias as ‘Monsieur le Comte de Moncalieri’. Not that Sir Hugo cared how he chose to register himself at Claridge’s. What smattering of knowledge he had acquired in his short and pampered existence told him that all men had something to hide and some had more than most. That, indeed, was what he was relying on.

Back in Holborn, Norton’s exegesis was at an end. As it concluded on a note of softly spoken conviction, Hector Warburton admitted to his mind for a fleeting moment the wholly rhetorical question: Could he really be James Davenall? Not that it was even of academic interest to him. The thought had only been inspired by Norton’s consummate mastery of his role. Whether that mastery derived from truth or from theatrical excellence made no difference to Warburton. Indeed, it was imperative that he should not trammel his preparation of the case with any genuinely held belief. It was important, in other words, that he should not know the answer. For others, however – in fact for more than supposed it to be the case – it was all that mattered, all that mattered in the world.

III

I reached Chester Square that evening earlier than I had intended, despite lingering at Orchard Street longer than necessary, even allowing for my brother Ernest’s visit to discuss the half-yearly accounts. I went so far as encouraging him to
prolong
his stay by taking a glass of sherry, which must have struck him as unusual. Perhaps I had hopes of enlisting his advice in my present predicament. If so, they were to be dashed. He made a reproachful face at the proffered decanter and took himself off into the dusk
.

So, despite all my stratagems, I arrived at Bladeney House sooner than I would have wished. Greenwood informed me that none of the other visitors who were expected had arrived, but that I might find Mr Cleveland in the music room as usual. He, it seemed, was not classed as a visitor
.

Cleveland was draped across a sofa, legs extravagantly akimbo, chuckling over a copy of
Punch
. He looked up as I entered
.

‘
You here, Trenchard? For the council of war, I take it
.’

‘
Yes. What about you?
’

‘
Hugo insists. It seems I’m to fire questions at the blighter along with the rest of you – and be coached into the bargain
.’

‘
Really?
’

‘
Absolutely. What did he have for breakfast before the Boxing Day Hunt at Cleave Court in 1869? That sort of thing
.’

I sat down opposite him. ‘And what is the answer?
’

‘
Blowed if I know. Whatever he says, I’m to contradict it.’ He laughed, and I joined him. ‘Bit desperate, what?
’

‘
Perhaps it needs to be
.’

Cleveland pulled himself into a more upright posture. ‘Do you really think so? Surely not. James’s doctor is being trooped out, you know. Not to mention the Great Panjandrum himself
.’

‘
I beg your pardon?
’

He leaned towards me and altered his voice to a stage whisper. ‘Hugo’s star witness. The so-called Count of Moncalieri. You may recognize him. If you do, say nothing: he’s grown frightfully shy in his old age. Besides, I believe his identity is to be a test of Norton’s, so to speak
.’

‘
I’m not sure I—
’

I broke off as the doors opened. It was Sir Hugo and a massively built, Gallic-faced man who could only be the anonymous Count. Sir Hugo looked surprised to see me, the Count dyspeptically unmoved. I rose to meet them
.

‘
Trenchard,’ said Sir Hugo. ‘Glad you could be here.’ We shook hands briefly. ‘Count, this is the gentleman who married Miss Sumner. William Trenchard. Trenchard: Monsieur le Comte de Moncalieri
.’

I extended my hand again, but the Count did not reciprocate. Instead, he bowed gravely. ‘Bonsoir, monsieur.’ His voice was rich and syrupy. As for his face, it meant nothing to me: set folds of patrician fat on an undeniably noble countenance, eyes bright and piercing beneath a hooded, somewhat brooding brow. I took him for some fleshy fragment of Second Empire nobility for whom the Third Republic was not an agreeable haven
.

‘
I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Count
.’

‘
You need not be, Monsieur Trenchard.’ His English was suddenly perfect, as if the French accent were as contrived as the title. ‘Mine is the honour: to meet such an embodiment of English virtues
.’

‘
I’m sorry?
’

‘
Hugo tells me that the Trenchards are
très grands épiciers.
Shopkeeping is, in this country, a noble calling. Thus am I honoured.’ It was impossible to tell from his expression whether he was attempting to be humorous or insulting. I merely smiled weakly
.

‘
Do I gather that you have met my wife, Count?
’

‘
Many years ago. I doubt she would recall the occasion. Yet who knows? Recollection is suddenly in season, is it not, Hugo?
’

Sir Hugo seemed equally uncertain as to his meaning. ‘The Count is an old friend of my father, Trenchard, and hence well acquainted with my late brother. Whilst in London, he has generously agreed to—
’

‘
Inspect your inconvenient pretender.’ The Count bowed. ‘That, too, will be an honour
.’

Cleveland had struggled from his seat to join us. ‘Seems only fitting, Count. After all, pretenders are rather your national speciality, what?
’

Again, there was no flicker of the fixed sullen expression. ‘Frédéric’s sense of humour has always been an education to me, Monsieur Trenchard, as, no doubt, it is to you
.’

‘
I must admit I didn’t see this as a laughing matter
.’

‘
No?’ said Cleveland with a pained look. ‘Then, I’d better take myself off to the dunce’s corner.’ He drifted away, but only to the piano, where he flopped down on the stool and commenced playing a Mozart concerto with disarming ease. Sir Hugo smiled in a show of tolerance, seated the Count, proffered drinks and bustled about the room, leaving me to meet Moncalieri’s morbidly searching gaze from the sofa opposite
.

‘
How did you come to be acquainted with Sir Gervase, Count?’ I asked
.

For a moment, he seemed disinclined to respond, toying with the watch-chain stretched across his silk-waistcoated midriff and twitching his mouth inconclusively. Then he suddenly decided the question warranted an answer. ‘I was a guest at Cleave Court in the year 1846, when the world was young, and I with it, when one could take one’s pleasure without fear of … the consequences
.’

‘
Before James Davenall was born?
’

He ignored the question. ‘Sir Gervase and I later served together – in the Crimea
.’

Sir Hugo intervened from the other side of the room, where he was pacing about beneath a Landseer hunting scene. ‘The Count is a long-standing friend of the family, Trenchard. As such, he is well qualified to expose Norton as an impostor
.’

‘
You have not yet met Mr Norton, Count?
’

‘
No, monsieur. That treat is reserved for tomorrow
.’

‘
Some treat!’ said Sir Hugo. He was by the doorway now, where something caught his attention from the room beyond, the windows of which looked on to the street. ‘Ah! Here’s Richard. Excuse me.’ He hurried out, giving me an opportunity to test the extent of Moncalieri’s friendship with Sir Gervase
.

‘
I gather Sir Gervase resisted the notion that his son was dead, Count. As his friend, did you comprehend his reasons?
’

‘
Surely it is easy to understand a father’s weakness. Gervase could not abandon his son whilst hope remained, however slender. But I am not to be swayed by such …
faiblesse du coeur.’

‘
Nor, strangely enough, is Lady Davenall. I do understand a father’s weakness. But what of a mother’s?
’

For the first time, Moncalieri’s face betrayed a faint tremor of reaction. ‘Too subtle, monsieur. Too subtle for your own good, I think.’ His eyes fixed themselves upon me whilst the piano played on behind us and the sound of opening and closing doors elsewhere in the house announced an arrival. ‘Ask yourself only one question. Do you wish James Davenall to be alive – or dead? I suggest you think well before answering, because much may depend upon it
.’

Cleveland stopped playing in the middle of a bar and swung round. ‘If it comes to it, Count, I don’t wish poor old Jimmy dead. He was my friend, dammit
.’

‘
Is not Hugo your friend? Do you wish him to lose his title and his fortune?
’

‘
Well … no
.’

‘
Then, you do wish James dead, Frédéric, just as Monsieur Trenchard does
.’

‘
Do I?
’

‘
I believe so, monsieur. I believe each of us here this evening wishes the same. That is why we came
.’

The Count was right, of course. Over dinner, Richard Davenall listed the questions he would put to Norton, the ways he hoped to catch him out, the traps he thought he might fall into, and we all nodded and consented to play our parts. Not for the first time, I could not keep from my mind the awful thought: How would it feel to return as Norton claimed he had and be denied by those who once had called him son and brother and friend? I can claim no credit for the sentiment, for it was as quickly swamped by the growing conviction that I must show him no quarter: in the contest about to open, it was every man for himself. Yet the worst of it was that I did not feel his equal. If only Richard Davenall could have announced that his investigations had uncovered a real, live, fraudulent James Norton. But he had learned nothing: Norton remained a total enigma. That, I think, is why the foreboding with which the journey to Somerset had left me remained as strong as ever, proof against our confident talk of crushing his claim once and
for
all. So long as I did not know our enemy, I could not truly believe that we had the beating of him
.