Painting The Darkness (43 page)

The truth. That one word, pronounced to his evident pain by a member of the Davenall family, swayed the court more than any argument or accusation which Sir Hardinge Giffard could summon. And he seemed to know it, judging by the growl of bitter resignation with which he descended into his seat and waved the witness out of the box.

‘That, I believe,’ said Mr Justice Wimberley after a moment, ‘concludes the case for the plaintiff. Am I correct, Mr Russell?’

‘You are, my Lord.’

Mr Justice Wimberley pursed his lips and began sifting through the papers before him. Mr Russell leaned back, smiling, for a word with his client. Sir Hardinge Giffard broodily contemplated some notes passed to him by a junior. Meanwhile, the nearby chair previously occupied by Richard Davenall stood empty. He was seen to have moved to the back of the court, where he was sitting beside Mrs Trenchard, anxiously awaiting, as was the entire rapt throng, the next development.

VI

‘The business of this court,’ declared Mr Justice Wimberley, ‘is to decide whether there is a case to be answered in this action. Questions of identity being notoriously difficult to determine, such claims as the plaintiff’s should not be lightly entertained. Nor, however, should they be lightly dismissed. If false, they are contemptible. If genuine, they are deserving of the utmost sympathy. There are no half-measures in such cases. Nevertheless, this court is not required to decide beyond reasonable doubt whether the plaintiff is or is not James Davenall, but to decide whether there exists a sufficient possibility that he may be as to warrant a full trial of his claim. In this respect, the question of acknowledgement becomes vital. If the plaintiff were unable to persuade a single person who knew James Davenall closely that he was James Davenall, then his knowledge of James Davenall’s life and doings, however profound, would count for very little. I am therefore struck by the fact that three out of the four witnesses he has called have acknowledged him unequivocally. They were all closely acquainted with James Davenall. None of them has anything to gain by acknowledging somebody they know to be an impostor. Indeed, one might argue that they have a great deal to lose by it. I am therefore minded to conclude that there
is
a case to be answered.’ He peered down at Sir Hardinge Giffard. ‘Does the defence wish to present evidence at this stage? If so, we shall need to adjourn.’

Giffard half-rose to reply in gloomy tones: ‘No, my Lord. My client reserves his defence.’

‘Very well.’ Mr Justice Wimberley paused for emphasis. ‘I am satisfied that the plaintiff, James Norton, has made out a prima facie case for ejectment against the defendant, Sir Hugo Davenall, which case shall be tried before a judge and jury of the Queen’s Bench at such time as shall be fixed by the court.’

VII

Richard stood up slowly and waited for the bustle of mass departure to subside. Constance and Emily were standing beside him, strangely awed, like him, by what had just occurred. They had won the qualified victory that justice demanded, but the future it gave them was formidable in its uncertainty.

As the crowd began to thin and the hubbub to fade, they were suddenly aware of James standing in the aisle at the end of their row of seats. He seemed perfectly composed, subdued even, in this moment of his vindication, and said simply: ‘It is over, my friends. You have saved me.’ Then he added: ‘From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.’

At first, they did not respond. Richard, for his part, was acutely aware of Hugo conferring excitedly with Giffard at the front of the court, whilst Constance seemed almost paralysed by the irrevocability of what she had done. It was left to Emily, in fact, to join James in the aisle, grasp his hand, kiss him on the cheek and announce with evident glee: ‘I am very happy for you, James. Very happy indeed.’

Then Constance, too, moved towards him, holding out her hand and smiling, but saying nothing, because nothing needed to be said. Seeing this, Richard nodded to James and slipped away down the side of the court. They had, he knew, no need of his company. Duty required him to be elsewhere.

Giffard was stooped over the registrar’s table, bundling documents together and pointedly ignoring Hugo, who was pulling at his sleeve and protesting, in a high cracked voice, that he had not hired the most expensive barrister in the Inns of Court to have this humiliation inflicted upon him. Richard was about to intervene, to what effect he could not guess, when Catherine moved into his path and stopped him in his tracks with the force of her glare.

‘I asked you to leave Hugo alone,’ she said in a steady threatening voice. ‘And you refused. I think your conduct
here
this afternoon gives me the right to
insist
that you leave him alone.’

‘I’d hoped you would listen to what I said. Hugo must drop this
now –
for his own good.’

‘You are a fool, Richard. Worse than that, you are a gullible fool. I should have known you would be taken in by Norton.’

‘Catherine, you are talking about your own son.’

‘Perhaps I misjudge you. Perhaps you are merely pretending to believe in him in order to hurt Hugo.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Is it? I find it more ridiculous to think you could actually believe that man is my son.’ She pointed past him towards the door. When he turned to look, he saw that James was just leaving the court, with Constance on his arm. ‘He is an impostor, sustained by the credulity of fools and the connivance of knaves. Which are you, Richard? Fool or knave?’

‘Catherine—’

‘It hardly matters which. Henceforth, you are a party to the conspiracy against my son.’

‘There’s no conspiracy. This is absurd.’

‘You will surrender all papers relating to our family to Baverstock. You will furnish him with all information amassed on Hugo’s behalf. You will separate yourself utterly from my son and his affairs. Is that clear?’

‘Do you mean to go on with this?’

‘That is no concern of yours. Are my requirements clear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you. This discussion – all our discussions – are at an end.’

The finality of her words was inescapable. He had foreseen this breach as soon as he had decided to speak out on James’s behalf. In many ways, he had even looked forward to the relief it might bring him. Yet to experience its reality was a different matter. To live through this moment of bitterest rejection was to understand that
where
love had once bloomed only hatred could now flourish.

He turned away. As he did so, he saw the doors of the court burst open and Emily Sumner rush into the hall, white-faced and wildly staring. Catching sight of him, she cried: ‘Mr Davenall! Come quickly! Something terrible has occurred!’

VIII

I had wandered the streets of London all night and morning until, drawn by fatigue and despair, I had succumbed at last to the lure of a fateful destination
.

Late afternoon found me trudging eastwards along the Strand through a grey world on which winter seemed already to have closed its grip. Around me bustled the ceaseless, pointless turmoil of the largest city on earth, but to me it signified nothing. For reality, if no other companion, had marched with me all the long, sad, dark day, and I had glimpsed in its face a truth I was determined to share: that Norton’s was merely a conscious version of all the lies we live
.

In Fleet Street, where falsehood is set daily in print and retailed to the masses at a penny a throw, I bought an
Evening Standard
and found, recorded amongst its pages, a lie I had helped to write myself
.

MURDER IN COVENT GARDEN

A
dead man found early this morning, concealed beneath sacking in an alley adjoining Covent Garden Market, is believed by police to have been stabbed to death late last night. The deceased has not yet been identified, but was distinguishable by having had his right arm amputated. Any person having reason to believe they may know the deceased is asked to contact Bow Street Police Station without delay. The death is being treated as a case of murder
.

I threw the newspaper into a bin and headed up Chancery Lane, thinking of Thompson, laid out on a slab in some cold and dripping mortuary, awaiting inspection by anybody who thought they might know a missing, murdered, one-armed man. Then I thought of Quinn – and of Norton, his creature – as I crossed Carey Street and turned into Lincoln’s Inn
.

The square was empty when I entered it. But, as I made my way along its eastern side, a group of people appeared from the direction of the Vice-Chancellor’s Court, talking excitedly amongst themselves. As I looked towards them, I saw, ambling along at the rear, Sir Hugo Davenall’s friend Freddy Cleveland. I rushed through the crowd and seized his arm
.

‘
Cleveland! It’s me: Trenchard
.’

‘
Trenchard? Good God. Hardly recognized you, old man. Surprised to see you here, after yesterday’s dust-up
.’

‘
Have you been in court?
’

‘
Yes. But, if that’s why you’re here, you’ve missed the boat. It’s all over – for the moment
.’

‘
What do you mean?
’

‘
The press johnnies are to have the trial they’ve prayed for. The case has been referred up, so to speak
.’

‘
Norton’s won?
’

Cleveland smiled. ‘Lived to fight another day, at any rate. Hugo looked pretty sick about it. Can’t say I blame him. Still, there was never a chance the judge would throw it out once your wife had fluttered her eyelashes at him
.’

‘
My wife?
’

‘
She testified for Norton. Identified him as Jimmy without a qualm. Damned impressive display, I must say. Positively heartrending. You should keep a tighter rein on her, old man. Otherwise … Well, ’nough said. Must dash
.’

He walked on and left me gaping at the grinning invisible faces of my enemies: Melanie, who had deceived me; Quinn, who had defeated me; and Norton, who had displaced me. Their eyes, boring into mine; their voices, rejoicing at my ruin; their hands, clutching at my throat. People were staring and pointing at me as they passed. What they saw was a dishevelled figure standing on the flagstoned path, weeping the tears of a
crazed
and private despair. But what I saw, when I turned and ran headlong in the direction of the court, was Norton and Constance, walking slowly towards me, arm in arm, my wife and my bitterest foe united in the moment of my destruction
.

They halted ten yards away. I saw the colour drain from Constance’s face, saw her mouth fall open in dismay. But, on Norton’s face, all I saw was the hint of a sneer he could never suppress
.

‘
Move away from her!’ I shouted
.

‘
Trenchard,’ Norton began, ‘we can—
’

‘
Move away from her!’ I pulled the gun from my pocket and pointed it straight at him. This time, it was loaded
.

‘
Trenchard, for God’s sake—
’

‘
Move away!’ I cocked the gun
.

He drew his arm from hers and walked as far as the railings bounding the lawn in the centre of the square, then turned to face me. ‘This is madness,’ he said calmly. ‘Don’t you understand? You’ve lost. Give it up, man
.’

He was right. I had lost – everything. I could see the gun shaking in my hands, could hear the blood rushing in my head. All else was still and silent, a motionless interval in which he confronted and defied me. Then I saw the realization flicker across his face that his success was also his peril. He had said it and he was right. He had taken everything from me. He had left me with nothing to lose. We must have understood each other in the very same instant. For, as he stepped towards me, I pulled the trigger
.

William Trenchard’s account of the six weeks which transformed him from a contented husband and respected businessman into a desperate outcast from all he had once possessed ends at this point. There can be little doubt that he believed what he had written constituted a complete justification of his murderous assault on Norton. Whether it did or not, however, was for others to decide. And upon their decision his future now depended.

Chapter Twelve

I

THE PLASTER-CAST HUMAN
head on the shelf was disconcertingly close to Richard Davenall’s right shoulder. He had glanced furtively in its direction on several occasions, but, until this present lull in the proceedings, had not examined it in detail. Now that he did so, he saw that the skull was criss-crossed by lines cut into the plaster, dividing the surface into a series of irregular shapes, each bearing a tiny labelled number. On the wall above the head hung a framed legend to this atlas of the cranium, equating the numbers to particular instincts or emotions. Richard ran his eye down the list – Veneration, Love of Offspring, Courage, Self-Defence – then stopped abruptly. Number five, a heptangle behind the left ear, was Murder.

‘In all the circumstances,’ Bucknill said at last, ‘I can see no
medical
objection.’ He raised himself from a ruminative slouch and looked thoughtfully at each of his guests in turn. ‘Indeed, from a strictly
medical
point of view, it is undoubtedly the wisest course.’

Richard wondered for a moment whether this meant yes or no. They had called in Bucknill because he was, beyond question, the most eminent consultant in the admittedly limited specialism of psychiatry, author of the definitive work
Unsoundness of Mind in Relation to Criminal Acts
, founder of
Brain: A Journal of Neurology
, and, until his retirement into private practice, the Lord Chancellor’s Medical Visitor of Lunatics. His opinion
would
undoubtedly outweigh all others. But what
was
his opinion?

With elaborate delicacy, Bucknill removed his steel-rimmed spectacles and placed them on the blotter before him. Without them, his eyes took on a sad, rheumy quality which heightened the lugubrious effect of his full grey beard and dome-shaped head. ‘I could say without hesitation,’ he continued, ‘that when Mr Trenchard committed the offence he was in the grip of strong paranoid delusions, delusions which do not appear to have diminished one whit in the intervening period, as his written account demonstrates.’ He turned his bloodhound gaze on Richard. ‘I believe you’ve read that account, Mr Davenall?’