Painting The Darkness (23 page)

Richard was disconcerted. He had not seen James since his abrupt departure from Cleave Court six years before. Nor, in view of the nature of that departure, had he expected to. Indeed, he had exchanged no more than a few words with the boy’s father during that time, banished as he was, at Wolseley’s silent bidding, from much of family society.

‘Is Catherine well?’ he said at last, happy to let his cousin attribute the quaver in his voice to the occasion of their meeting.

‘Oh, in the pink. But not much to be stirred from Cleave Court, I’m afraid.’

‘Ah, yes. Of course. Do give her my … regards.’

‘Happy to. Happy to.’

They turned out of the avenue and began to move slowly down the winding path towards the main gate of the cemetery. The rain had become little more than a mist now, a damp veil across the orderly expanse of graves, but the cold had intensified: their breath rose in clouds about them.

‘Perhaps I could call on you at the office in a few days,’ said Gervase after an interval. ‘Make sure everything’s in order.’

‘I’m not sure I quite follow you.’

Gervase smiled. ‘You will be able to take on my legal affairs now, won’t you?’

Richard was nonplussed. His father had not encouraged him to think that he would inherit his mantle. ‘Oh … well, of course. I’d be honoured. But I thought—’

‘That cretin Chubb? Not on, old man. Simply not on. Your father told me I was to look on him as his principal assistant – some nonsense about seniority. But I prefer to
keep
these things in the family. Tell me’ – he lowered his voice – ‘did you fall out with your father over something? He’s treated you pretty damn shabbily in recent years, I must say.’

‘I really couldn’t …’

‘I wouldn’t blame you. Prickly, I always found him – damned prickly. Still, mustn’t speak ill … Look round to dinner one night next week, why don’t you? I could put you in the picture then. All the ins and outs of my affairs, what?’

Richard found himself smiling. If only Gervase knew. If only his father knew. This meant emancipation from servitude to Chubb and the life of a legal errand-boy. This meant a new beginning, a long-awaited chance to forget the errors of the past.

How long the bell had been jangling Richard had no way of knowing. The moment of its intrusion on his distant thoughts might have been the instant it began or any number of minutes thereafter. He listened: the servants, a sleepy lot even when on duty, had not stirred. The bell rang again. With a sigh, he rose from his desk, took up the lamp and left the room.

Wolseley Davenall, ever a cautious man, had had a spy-hole fitted to the broad front door of his Highgate home. When Richard slid back the cover and peered through, he saw that his late-night visitor was William Trenchard, a sodden and haggard figure in the fitful glow of the porch lamp. He slipped the bolts at once and opened the door.

‘Trenchard! What brings—?’

‘I got your message.’

‘Message? Oh – yes. Come in.’ He had, it was true, left word at The Limes that, should Trenchard return there, he would appreciate hearing from him. Now that seemed an age ago. ‘I didn’t mean to get you out in the middle of the night.’

‘Is it so late?’ said Trenchard, following him towards the study. ‘I’ve rather lost track of time.’

‘I called on you this morning. Constance explained that she is to stay with her family for a while.’

Trenchard did not reply. When they reached the study, Richard helped him off with his drenched coat and ran an appraising eye over him.

‘You look all in,’ he said, though what he thought was that fatigue and desperation had filled Trenchard with a restless, reckless energy.

‘What did you want to tell me?’

‘It can wait. Will you have a drink?’

Trenchard nodded and warmed himself by the fire whilst Richard poured him a glass.

‘I was sorry to hear that Constance felt the need to … go away.’

Trenchard took a gulp from the proffered glass and smiled grimly. ‘She’s left me.’

‘Surely it hasn’t—’

‘She believes in Norton. My only way to win her back is to prove he’s an impostor.’

‘I can’t believe—’

‘I don’t have time to waste on pretence and self-delusion any more. I mean to nail Norton’s lies, and you can help me.’

‘How?’

‘He told her that I’d offered him money on Sir Hugo’s behalf. That turned her against me. Then he volunteered to withdraw his claim – if she asked him to. He’s clever, you see. Damned clever.’ Trenchard glared into the fire, where the heat of his hatred seared back at him.

‘I’m sorry if my family’s troubles have come between you and Constance,’ Richard said. ‘Truly I am.’

Trenchard looked at him and drained his glass. ‘That doesn’t matter now. I’ve been to Bath today – and there I found his weakness. There I found the means to destroy him.’

Richard took the glass from Trenchard’s cradled hand and moved to the decanter to refill it. His companion, he realized, was no longer the self-centred well-intentioned
husband
who had wished only to protect his marriage from a fortune-hunting impostor. In outmanoeuvring him at every turn, Norton had driven Trenchard into the grip of an obsession. And Norton was that obsession.

‘What can you tell me about Alfred Quinn?’

‘Quinn? Why do you ask?’

As Trenchard explained, Richard grew perturbed. The crazy twisting path that linked Quinn with Norton could only be followed by those compelled to believe in its conclusion. All Trenchard’s fevered theorizing would count for nothing if Constance hailed Norton as James Davenall. If that occurred, Trenchard would become a liability to their cause: a jealous, irrational, railing husband. His pursuit of Quinn, however apparently justified, would seem unreasoning folly.

A silence fell after Trenchard had finished, a silence too profound to be ignored. Richard stoked the fire, recharged their glasses and said nothing.

‘Well?’ said Trenchard at last.

Richard smiled defensively. ‘It’s a beguiling theory.’

‘Is that all?’

‘For the moment, yes.’

‘But don’t you see?’

‘I see no connection with Norton – and that is what counts. A dismissed servant bearing a grudge is one thing, hatching a plot like this quite another. What you’ve found could be nothing more than a misleading mixture of coincidence and circumstance.’

‘That’s what Baverstock said.’

‘He’s a sensible man. Why don’t you sleep on all this? Stay here, if you like. You might see things differently if—’

‘Don’t try to fob me off. What can you tell me about Quinn?’

‘Nothing you haven’t already found out. He was Gervase’s batman in the Crimea, later his valet, later still James’s valet. Baverstock knows more about the circum
stances
of his dismissal than I do.’

‘Any idea where he is now?’

‘None. But, then, I don’t make it my business—’

‘Any idea where he came from originally?’

The Army. That’s all I know.’

‘Did he speak with any kind of accent?’

‘Not that I can remember. This is—’

‘The surname’s Irish. Was he Irish, do you think?’

‘No. That is—’

‘Your family owns land in Ireland, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes. But what has—?’

‘Wait!’ Trenchard clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘You told me that Sir Gervase’s mother had died only recently. Murdered in the course of a burglary – at her home in Ireland.’

‘That’s true. But—’

‘How much did the burglars get away with?’

‘I really don’t see—’

‘Don’t you? Then, you should. Quinn would have known the value of Lady Davenall’s property, whether she stored cash and jewellery on the premises, how and when to get into the home.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘That he might have been the burglar – seeking funds for this conspiracy.’

‘That’s outrageous.’

‘Maybe – but it makes more and more sense.’

Richard rose from his chair and grasped Trenchard by the shoulders. ‘Listen to me!’ he said sharply. ‘Listen to me before you go too far. You’re tired and overwrought. You’re upset about Constance. All that’s understandable. But piling together hopeless allegations against Quinn won’t help.’

Trenchard looked at him blankly. ‘Is that it, then? You won’t help?’

‘Of course I’ll help. We must obviously try to find Quinn. After all, he was James’s valet and is therefore a vital witness. If he is behind this, we’ll find out. Frankly, I
doubt
he has the intelligence – or the organizing ability – to have done the things you suspect.’

Trenchard stepped free of Richard’s grasp and moved to the window, where rain still spat on the blackened glass. ‘I suppose that will have to do,’ he murmured.

‘For the moment, I’m afraid it will.’

‘What did you want to tell me?’

‘Nothing that supports your theory, I’m afraid. It concerns the information which Norton used to alarm Prince Napoleon.’

As he related what Baverstock had discovered concerning Vivien Strang and Prince Napoleon’s presence at Cleave Court in September 1846, Richard felt his faith in its significance subsiding. Was it, after all, not an even flimsier amalgam of connected coincidences than Trenchard’s own suspicions? Another dismissed servant – another treacherous strand of dates and events that led nowhere. Where, in all of this, was their salvation?

‘I propose to visit Catherine tomorrow,’ he concluded, ‘and press her to say what she knows about Miss Strang. It won’t be easy.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because of … long-standing differences between us.’

‘Another family feud?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘But another secret that’s to be kept from me?’

‘I can’t repair the damage my family may have done your marriage, Trenchard, but I can seek to limit it. That’s why I’m visiting Catherine tomorrow – despite everything. You have my word that the cause of my reluctance is wholly unconnected with our present difficulties.’

‘Will you ask her about Quinn?’

‘I’ll certainly mention him. But I can’t guarantee she’ll be any more forthcoming where he’s concerned than she has been so far about Miss Strang.’

‘Why should she keep anything back?’

‘I don’t know. That’s what I hope to find out. Be assured, I’ll let you know the outcome.’

‘What will you do about Quinn?’

‘I’ll institute enquiries. That’s all I can do.’

With sudden decisiveness, Trenchard plucked his coat from the back of a chair and shrugged it on to his shoulders. ‘Very well. I’ll await your word. Will you be back within the day?’

‘By Monday at the latest.’

‘I’ll do nothing until then. After that—’

‘Trenchard!’ Richard looked intently at him. ‘Clearly the offer of money to Norton was a mistake. Commissioning you to make the offer compounded that mistake. I’m truly sorry for all the consequences of our misjudgement. But don’t make them worse than they already are.’

‘How could I?’

‘Until this case comes to court, we have a chance to put everything right. Until then, I implore you to trust me. Do nothing without consulting me.’

But there was suspicion now in Trenchard’s look: trust was no longer possible. ‘I’ll do nothing until I hear from you again. After that … I don’t know.’

Nor did Richard know. He had himself scarcely looked beyond his dreaded encounter with Catherine and all the half-formed doubts that would hover like ghosts about their meeting. When he saw Trenchard off into the wet engulfing night and bolted the door behind him, his mind drew him irresistibly towards the mocking record that time had made of his life. As he retraced his steps along the hall, the light from his lamp flickering and leaping amongst the remembered shapes and furnishings of his father’s house, he felt the invisible line tighten and draw him in once more.

‘It’s settled, then,’ said Gervase. ‘Meet me at the club, Tuesday at six.’

‘I’ll be glad to,’ said Richard as they emerged into Swain’s Lane. The cabs and carriages of the other mourners were already departing, moving at a slightly less solemn pace than when they had arrived. The undertaker was waiting
on
the other side of the road to transport Richard home, while Gervase’s phaeton was drawn up by the cemetery chapel. ‘Would you care to step back to the house?’

‘Can’t tarry, I’m afraid. Have to get Jamie home to pack. Term starts at Eton tomorrow. He’s looking forward to it – aren’t you, son?’

James looked up bleakly. ‘Yes, Papa.’

‘Now, say goodbye to your cousin Richard.’

James held up his small gloved hand. As Richard reached down to clasp it, the boy’s eyes engaged his own. Before he could prevent himself, Richard gasped. Those eyes – young, intent and staring – that had once seen … He snatched back his hand and pressed it to his brow, as if to shield himself from the sudden rush of guilt.

‘Something wrong, old man?’ said Gervase.

Richard recovered himself. ‘It … it’s nothing. I’m sorry. I felt … unsteady for a moment.’

‘Strain of the occasion, I expect. Here, do take a sip of this.’ He held out the hip-flask.

This time, Richard accepted it and gulped down some of the contents, glad of the burning sensation in his throat with which to lance away the question: Did he remember? When he returned the flask, James was still staring at him, but Richard looked elsewhere.

Gervase touched him on the elbow. ‘Well, must be off. Don’t forget our appointment.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Come on, Jamie.’

Richard watched them walk the few yards to the phaeton, where the driver was waiting to help them aboard. James looked back once, in what was little more than a glance, and Richard forced himself to smile, but still he did not let their eyes meet.

‘Home, Quinn,’ said Gervase.

Ignored then, a grey-faced factotum in Inverness cape and dark top-hat, Quinn had eased the horses out into the road, nodded once to Richard and driven the phaeton
away
. Twenty-one years later, by the light of a dying fire, alone in his Highgate study, Richard could not deny that it was odd Gervase should have preferred Quinn to one of his grooms as driver that day. He had always, he conceded, seemed more a familiar than a servant. What had they known of him, when all was said and done? What trust might Quinn have forged with his master which Catherine was later to break? Could Trenchard be right for all the wrong reasons?