Painting The Darkness (57 page)

‘I’ll do that, sir. Will he be moving into Bladeney House when he comes back?’

‘I expect so. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s just that I called there first, thinking he might be at home. But Sir Hugo –
Mr
Hugo, that is – is still in residence.’

‘Ah, yes, he would be. Did you speak to Hugo?’

‘Yes, sir, I did. If you don’t mind my saying so, he’s taken events very hard. Very hard indeed.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Richard was far from sure that he wanted Quinn’s opinion on his former master’s state of mind.

‘I’ve known Mr Hugo a long time.’ The sharpening of Quinn’s tone indicated that he had read Richard’s thoughts. ‘He was always a man for ups and downs. But if he was angry you knew it: he was never mopish.’

‘You found him so on this occasion?’

‘Yes, sir, I’d have to say I did. All the spirit seemed to have gone out of him. Quite saddened me to see it.’

‘It’s been a difficult time for all the family,’ said Richard, assuming an unconcerned expression. ‘I’m sure Hugo will pull round.’

The truth, of course, was otherwise. After Quinn had gone, Richard felt more beset than ever by the bitterness and enmity that had flowed from James’s return. Who of all the people touched by the event would not, in their heart of hearts, prefer to turn back the clock and restore the assumptions and conventions by which their lives had been governed till he had come to change them? It was not James’s fault. It was not anybody’s fault. Yet many must have wished he had stayed away, or truly drowned in Wapping twelve years before.

Richard rose and moved to the window, from where he could see down into the street. As he watched, Quinn emerged on to the pavement and walked quickly away, an obscure, private citizen dwindling into the London
crowds
. There was no reason to disbelieve anything he had said. It made perfect sense. It proved what Richard should all along have accepted: that Quinn was neither master-criminal nor arch-conspirator, merely an old soldier whose luck had turned.

VI

Constance opened the french windows and stepped out on to the balcony of her hotel room. There was a cooling breeze this high above street-level, but already the day held presentiments of burning heat. Gazing at the clock-towers and neatly tiled roofs around her, she felt glad that today they would be heading south into Italy, for Zurich’s air of industry and discipline had disappointed her after the gaiety of Salzburg.

She looked down into the tiny square beneath her, no more than a pocket handkerchief of raked gravel around a fountain when viewed from her fourth-floor eyrie. The little café opposite the hotel had few customers at this hour: the merest smattering of glum-faced Zurichers immersed in newspapers. There was also, she noticed, a single woman among them, sitting at one of the outermost tables facing the hotel. A slim creature in a cream dress, with long dark hair beneath a straw hat: such was all Constance could see of her.

Suddenly, she heard behind her a knock at the door of the room. She called ‘Come in’ and was delighted to see that her visitor was James, already dressed for travelling. He crossed the room, smiling, and joined her on the balcony.

‘All packed?’ he asked.

‘I believe Emily has everything in hand.’

‘As ever.’ They exchanged a kiss. ‘I have news from England. A letter from Richard.’ He patted his jacket pocket.

‘Is he well?’

‘Oh, yes. But an interesting thing’s happened. It seems Quinn has turned up at last.’

‘Quinn?’

‘My old valet. His testimony would have helped the case along, but he couldn’t be found at the time. Apparently, he’s just returned from New Zealand, unaware of all the efforts that were made to locate him.’

‘How strange.’

‘Isn’t it? Richard says he’s come into some money, though I doubt it’s changed him.’ He stepped to the edge of the balcony and leaned out from the railings to sample the air. ‘Another hot day, I fancy.’

‘I fear so.’

‘In which case, the sooner we start the better. We’ve a long journey to—’ His words were cut off in mid-sentence. When Constance looked at him, she saw that his face had gone quite white. He was gazing down fixedly into the square, at the placid scene of fountain and tables in which she had found so little of interest. But in James the view seemed to have inspired a sudden irrational terror. Alarmed, she stepped towards him, but the movement seemed to break whatever trance had briefly held him. He pushed himself back from the railings and smiled at her, the colour rapidly returning to his cheeks. ‘It’s all right. No cause for concern.’

She took his hand in hers and found his grip reassuringly firm. ‘For a moment, you looked dreadfully ill.’

‘A touch of vertigo, I think. Nothing more.’

‘It’s so unlike you.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. But, honestly, I feel perfectly well again now.’

‘Shall we go in?’

‘Yes, let’s. Breakfast might complete my recovery.’

As they turned towards the room, Constance glanced down into the square, still wondering what had upset James: she had never known him to suffer from vertigo before. She saw, however, nothing that could have inspired such a reaction. All was quiet and orderly in the square.
Nothing
had changed in the past few minutes, except that the solitary female customer at the café had left her table and was walking away down the street.

VII

Richard walked past Bladeney House several times before summoning sufficient courage to ring the bell. It was absurd, he thought, as he waited for the door to open, that his heart should be racing like this, his hand shaking, merely at the prospect of seeing Hugo for the first time since the end of the trial. Hugo did not know, after all, what they truly were to each other. He must never know.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Greenwood. There was no inflexion in his voice or twitch of his eyebrows to indicate surprise that Richard should have called again after so long an absence.

‘Is Hugo in?’

‘Yes, sir. You’ll find him in one of the top-floor rooms, I think.’

Richard’s misgivings grew as he ascended the stairs. The top floor of Bladeney House had been given over to servants’ quarters in Gervase’s day. Reductions in the household had followed and, so far as Richard knew, it was mostly storage space now. He could not imagine what would have drawn Hugo there.

Silence reigned on the topmost landing. Richard paused and looked around. Then came a sound from the far end of the passage, towards the back of the house, as of a heavy object being moved in stages. He hurried in its direction.

An open doorway led him into a small box-room, probably a parlourmaid’s bedroom once, now stacked high with packing-cases and tea-chests. Hugo was stooped in a corner, loosening the leather straps round a scratched and dented metal trunk. He looked up in surprise when Richard called his name, his face flushed from his exertions, or perhaps, it struck Richard later, from guilt.

‘What brings you here, cousin?’ Hugo stood upright, brushing the dust from his hands. The glare of hostility in his eyes was unmistakable.

Richard stepped into the room, lowering his head where the ceiling sloped beneath the eaves. ‘How are you, Hugo?’ he said, ignoring the question he had been asked.

‘Wonderful. Never felt better. How did you expect me to be?’

‘The trial ended nearly two months ago. I hoped I might find you … reconciled to the verdict.’

‘I am. As you see. Happy as a sand-boy. Can’t think why I didn’t renounce my title and give away all my money long ago. It’s been the making of me.’

‘Hugo—’

‘Don’t say anything, Richard!’ Suddenly, the veil of sarcasm had dropped. ‘You think two months can make good what you did to me? Nothing can. Nothing ever will.’

‘James has been as generous as—’

‘He’s made me crawl, you mean. To his banker for money to live. To his solicitor to plead for a roof over my head. He took the bread out of my mouth, and you helped him do it. What in hell’s name made you think I could be
reconciled
to his theft of everything I owned?’

Richard swallowed hard to mask the anguish he felt; he must be calm and tolerant – above all, loyal to his own actions if to nothing else. ‘I helped James assert his natural and legal rights: that is all. I advised you against contesting his claim, but you paid no heed. Now I can only hope you will pay heed. Admit you were wrong, Hugo. Acknowledge James as your brother, the rightful holder of the baronetcy and the rightful owner of this house.’ Irony crowded in upon Richard as soon as he had finished speaking. If only he could be sure that what he had said was really true. If only he could believe that Hugo, not he, had been the fool.

‘This house! Is that why you’re here? To make sure I clear
out
before he returns from gallivanting around Europe with another man’s wife? My God, he’s the only man I know who believes in taking the honeymoon before the wedding!’

‘There’s no point—’

‘Well, don’t worry! I’ll be out soon enough. Freddy’s recommended me some rooms in Duke Street that I should be able to afford on my so-called brother’s so-called allowance.’

‘You don’t have to take his money.’

Hugo crashed his hand down against the lid of the trunk. The noise of the blow echoed in the tiny room. ‘God damn it, what else can I do?’ With a despairing sigh, he lowered himself on to an upturned orange-box, and stared up at Richard with bloodshot reproachful eyes. ‘There’d be the devil to pay if Mother ever found out I was taking his money. But I have no choice.’

‘There is always a choice.’ Richard remembered excusing his desertion of Catherine all those years before on just the grounds Hugo had now advanced. Yet he knew the futility of pretending a choice could truly be said to exist for a son as weak as his father.

‘It’s easy for you to say that. It’s easy for you to stand there and tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.’

‘Believe me, I’m only trying to help you.’

In Hugo’s expression as he glared up at Richard, hurt pride had conquered self-loathing. ‘I don’t need your help – or your advice. What the hell does it matter to you whether I choose to take his money or not?’

It was one question Richard dared not answer. It was too late, far too late, to explain why he should feel so shamed and diminished by Hugo’s humiliation. He could only stare back blankly.

‘Get out, Richard. Get out and leave me to lead the life you and Norton have forced on me in whatever way I see fit.’

‘I’ll be going away on business soon. I thought—’

‘I expect I’ll be out of here by the time you return. I
shan
’t burden you with my new address, because I shan’t expect you to call.’

‘If you don’t want me to—’

‘I don’t.’

Hugo’s bleak broken-spirited look confirmed that there was nothing more to be said. With the faintest of farewell nods, Richard turned and left the room.

‘On business, you say?’ Hugo called after him. ‘
Sir
James’s business, no doubt. Much good may you have of running errands for him.’

Richard walked away slowly down the passage. It was strange, he reflected, that Hugo should throw that last insult at his back, for he was not going away at James’s bidding. In a sense, he was going for Hugo’s sake. He was going to seek the truth on his son’s account.

Hugo waited until Richard’s footsteps had faded away down the stairs. He was alone once more, rid of his cousin’s pious solicitude, out of the sickening sight of his prying eyes. He turned to the trunk, threw back the straps and raised the lid.

Inside were all the surviving remnants of Sir Gervase Davenall’s military career: his sabre in its scabbard, items of uniform neatly folded, a pair of binoculars, map-tubes and assorted charts, a bundle of saddle-bags and harnessing, a portable chess-set, a small folding card-table and the dismantled legs, struts and castors of an old camp-bed.

Carefully, almost reverentially, Hugo delved through the piles of distinctive Hussar pelisses, tunics, sashes and trousers. He found what he was looking for, concealed at the base of the trunk: a shallow rectangular wooden box, measuring about thirty inches by fifteen. With some difficulty, for it was deceptively heavy, he lifted it out and laid it on the floor, then drew a bunch of keys from his pocket and began looking through them for the one that would fit the tiny lock that held the box shut. He did not hurry, for he knew what was in the box and would
recognize
the right key as soon as he saw it. He knew because he had seen it opened before.

When Hugo returned to Bladeney House that night in September 1876, Quinn told him his father was waiting for him in his study. It was past midnight, but no excuse would be acceptable. His presence was required.

It was immediately obvious that Sir Gervase was slightly drunk and very angry. ‘Have you anything to say for yourself?’ he demanded as soon as Hugo entered the room.

‘I don’t understand, sir.’

‘Don’t prevaricate with me. Wigram spoke to me at the club this evening.’

‘About what?’

‘About your dispute with his son.’

‘Ah, that.’ Young Wigram had accused Hugo of cheating during a late-night game of faro. And Hugo had indeed been cheating, though he had denied it strenuously; the two had parted on the worst of terms.

‘Well may you say
that
. Have you any idea of the embarrassment you’ve caused me? To be told that my own son cheats at cards – on club premises. Damn your eyes, Hugo, have you nothing to say to me?’

‘I didn’t cheat, sir. Harry Wigram was mistaken.’

‘His father said you’d denied it – then walked out.’

‘What else could I do?’

‘What else?’ Sir Gervase stared at his son incredulously. ‘Good God, can you be serious? Your action was virtually an admission of guilt.’

‘I wasn’t prepared to sit there and be insulted.’

‘Then, you should have called him out.’

Hugo frowned. Now it was his father’s seriousness that was in doubt. Surely he must know that duelling, once the
sine qua non
of a gentleman, was looked upon nowadays as the refuge of romantics and the indulgence of idiots. ‘Well, sir, we do things rather differently these—’