Painting The Darkness (32 page)

Richard walked into the study and lit the lamps. Now that he remembered, it seemed even less satisfactory than when he had been unable to call it to mind. Lennox was Kennedy’s predecessor, a man who, by all logic, should have meant nothing to Gervase. Yet Gervase had paid him ten thousand pounds. Richard slumped down heavily in his chair and gazed at the desk-top which his cousin had once thumped for emphasis. There was no answer to be found in its varnished surface, no clue to be gleaned from its polished grain. The ghosts had departed. But their secrets remained.

Chapter Nine

I

THE VICE-CHANCELLOR’S COURT
, Lincoln’s Inn, lit by mullioned glass and sizzling gas, furnished in stained oak and buttoned red leather, every table piled with pink-taped bundles and sagging tomes of precedent, every seat taken by wigged advocates and their whispering advisers, every bench filled with a jostling assortment of the idle and the curious, every rafter echoing with the expectant confusion of muttering voices. Such was the arena for the case of
Norton versus Davenall
, and such were its occupants, ranged before the vacant berth, as the appointed hour drew near, that dank November morning.

Those who knew their legal drama and its leading actors had been watching the two senior counsel, Russell and Giffard, preparing themselves on opposite sides of the court, and had looked to them for clues as to what would follow. Russell had been much the less active of the two, exuding his practised air of the casual dilettante. Giffard, by contrast, had been perpetually engaged in murmured consultations with a clutch of juniors, though whether at his instigation or that of his client was unclear. He had been observed to speak testily on one occasion to the bearded grey-haired solicitor whom rumour held to be a cousin of the defendant. Sir Hugo Davenall himself was taken to be the long-limbed tousle-haired young man who was out of his chair, adjusting his collar and fingering his lips, as often as he was in it, drumming his fingers and
shooting
glances around the court. These often fell, to no obvious purpose, on the elegantly dressed, veiled lady who many assumed was his mother but who had, thus far, neither approached nor spoken to him.

One direction in which Sir Hugo’s eyes never moved was that of the plaintiff, the enigmatic Mr Norton. This man, whose claim to be Sir Hugo’s brother made him the focus of attention for all sensation-seekers, had held a pose of languid immobility between Russell and the sleek-haired solicitor recognized by the
cognoscenti
as Hector Warburton. He had said no more than a few words to either gentleman and had not so much as glanced at the public gallery. He had conveyed nothing, in short, beyond a quite unreasonable calmness and, whilst some were disappointed, others thought they recognized the hallmarks of a potentially entertaining confidence. Anticipation was running high.

‘The court will rise.’

Mr Justice Wimberley had entered the bench from his door behind the throne before the usher had completed his announcement and now squinted querulously around at the rows of awkwardly rising figures. He was a small, orderly, fussy little man with a bobbing, egg-shaped, sharp-nosed head that gave him, in full judicial regalia, something of the appearance of a startled and ill-tempered moorhen. He peered distrustfully at the crowded court, as if to suggest that he had expected – and hoped for – a scantier attendance, then took his seat with a resentful tug at his robe.

Just as the other occupants of the court were about to subside gratefully into their places, the creak of the door serving the public gallery alerted those with acute hearing to the advent of a shame-faced latecomer, a plainly clad lady who crept to a vacant seat with exaggerated stealth, only to have her attention drawn to a Salisbury–Waterloo return railway ticket which she had dropped on her way. Mr Justice Wimberley watched her retrieval of it with piercing censorious eyes but, if tempted to have her
ejected
, he was evidently dissuaded by her air of flustered sincerity. With a vague slack-wristed flap of the hand to the clerk of the court, he signalled that business might commence.

The case was called and the particulars painstakingly recited, then Mr Charles Russell, QC, rose to address the court. He spoke slowly and softly, implying by his measured composure of tone that his client’s claim had every force of sweet, natural, amiable reason. The steel he was known to possess did not glint, the fire he was noted for did not flare. He seemed consciously subdued, as if aware that only one man could win this case for the plaintiff: the plaintiff himself. And, sure enough, sooner than might have been expected, the man known as James Norton was sworn in to testify.

Before his examination could begin, Mr Justice Wimberley made a purse-lipped intervention. ‘You give your name as Norton?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Then, you admit it is not Davenall?’

‘Davenall is the name I was born with. I have not used it for eleven years and shall not do so until my right to it is acknowledged by this court.’

The plaintiff had made a good start. Mr Justice Wimberley seemed appeased, if not impressed. ‘You may proceed, Mr Russell,’ he said, with a faint nod in the barrister’s direction.

‘Where and when were you born?’

‘I was born at Cleave Court, in the county of Somerset, on the twenty-fifth of February 1848.’

‘Who were your parents?’

‘Sir Gervase and Lady Davenall.’

‘You were their first child?’

‘I was.’

‘And hence heir to the Davenall baronetcy?’

‘Just so.’

‘Where were you educated?’

‘Eton and Oxford.’

‘Which college?’

‘Christ Church.’

‘In which year did you graduate?’

‘1870.’

‘How would you describe yourself at that time?’

So. The preliminaries were complete. There was an audible heightening of interest and tension. Many in the gallery leaned forward, eager to hear how he would rise to the challenge. Biographical facts were one thing, convincing self-portrait quite another.

For a moment, Norton hesitated. Was he lost? No. For this was not hesitation. This was deliberation. When he spoke, it was with the dispassionate fluency of one who either did not recognize his twelve-years-younger self or did so all too well.

‘I was twenty-two years old. My upbringing had been pampered and privileged. I was the possessor of considerable wealth and the heir to more. The world was at my feet, and I believed it belonged there. At the time, I would have described myself as the exemplar of the English gentleman, deserving of every one of the advantages I enjoyed. Now, looking back, I see that I was a vain and foolish young prig.’

The hush was complete. The court was in his power. For this brief space, they were his to convince. While it lasted, his opportunity was infinite.

‘That is admirably frank,’ said Russell.

‘I object, my Lord,’ said Giffard, rising to his feet. ‘What my learned friend calls admirably frank I call intolerably offensive to the memory of a fine young man.’

Mr Justice Wimberley compressed his face into a vinegary frown. ‘Clearly, Sir Hardinge, it is one thing or the other. But it is too early to say which. You may proceed, Mr Russell.’

‘Thank you, my Lord. Let us go forward one year. How would you describe yourself, then, in June 1871?’

Again, a finely judged pause. This time, the court was ready for it and waited patiently. Then Norton resumed. ‘I
was
a year older but no wiser. I had had the good fortune to become engaged to a young lady of excellent character. Had we married, I have no doubt she would have been an improving influence on me. As it was, I was conscious of no need for improvement. The freedom to indulge my every whim – indeed, my every vice – seemed its own reward. My arrogance and my folly had merely increased.’

‘Would you care to name your fiancée of those times?’

‘I would rather not. She married another, believing me to be dead. I wish to cause her no embarrassment of any kind.’

‘I protest, my Lord.’ Giffard was once again on his feet. ‘The plaintiff’s delicacy is the most transparent evasion.’

Mr Justice Wimberley appeared to find these harrying tactics tiresome. ‘If so, you may press the point in cross-examination later, Sir Hardinge. Pray proceed, Mr Russell.’

‘When were you due to marry … this young lady of excellent character?’

‘Our wedding was fixed for the twenty-third of June.’

‘What prevented it?’

‘On the eighteenth of June, I left the country.’

‘Under what circumstances?’

‘Under circumstances of total anonymity.’

‘Please elaborate.’

‘I had spent some days in London whilst my fiancée remained with my family in Somerset. I had returned there briefly on the seventeenth. I had met my fiancée and informed her that I could not marry her. I had left a note for my parents indicating that I intended to commit suicide. I had then come back to London and taken a cab to Wapping.’

‘With what purpose?’

‘The purpose implied in my note: suicide. By drowning.’

‘What led you to contemplate such a desperate course?’

The crisis had been reached. All eyes were turned on him, all ears straining for what he would next say. This
was
the moment when he would either open his heart on a dead secret or pile invention on a nerveless lie. This was either penance or perjury.

‘I had been unwell for some months, unmistakably so for some weeks. I had succeeded in concealing the symptoms from those close to me, but they were none the less acute. I had therefore consulted my doctor.’

‘The family doctor?’

‘Yes. Fiveash. A good man.’

Russell looked up at the judge. ‘Dr Fiveash will be testifying later, my Lord.’ Then he swung back to the plaintiff. ‘What was his diagnosis?’

‘Syphilis.’

Somewhere in the gallery there was an ill-suppressed snort of laughter. Mr Justice Wimberley looked up irritably. ‘I will clear the court if there is any ribaldry. Proceed, Mr Russell.’

‘What treatment did Dr Fiveash suggest?’

‘None, beyond palliatives for the immediate symptoms. He said that the disease had progressed beyond his power to halt it and that a slow decline, albeit with many remissions, was inevitable. A decline, that is, unto death.’

‘Did he offer you no advice?’

‘Only that to marry was unthinkable.’

‘Quite. You accepted that?’

‘Of course.’

‘Tell me, did this diagnosis surprise you?’

The handsome, well-spoken and patently healthy plaintiff gazed into the middle distance. ‘Not entirely.’ The only movement now was on the defence side. Sir Hugo Davenall and his solicitor exchanged an anxious whispered word. Sir Hardinge Giffard looked round at them, then back at Norton. Mr Justice Wimberley shot a silencing glare in their direction, then up at the public gallery, where ribaldry seemed once more to threaten.

‘Why were you not surprised?’

‘Because I had been in the habit of consorting with prostitutes.’

Was that a low whistle from the press seats? If so, it was rapidly lost in another intervention by Giffard. ‘My Lord, this is the most appalling slander on an eminent and respectable family.’

Mr Justice Wimberley affected not to hear. ‘You openly admit to having been grossly immoral, young man?’

‘I do, my Lord.’

‘Whilst actually engaged to a young lady whom you described as of the finest character?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

The judge shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Dreadful, dreadful,’ he muttered. ‘Proceed, Mr Russell.’

‘The diagnosis did not, then, surprise you. How did it affect you?’

‘It forced me to recognize the depth of my moral degeneration. It compelled me to realize that I was not merely unable to marry, but also unworthy. It drove me to face the truth: that I had lived such a lie that I had no right to live at all.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I was in despair, consumed with self-pity and self-loathing in equal measure. To tell the truth seemed worse than simply to end my life without explanation. I resolved to kill myself.’

There was a stifled sob from the public gallery. The woman who had arrived late was crying gently into an embroidered handkerchief. Mr Justice Wimberley looked up, but uttered no word of reproof. Tears seemed almost appropriate.

‘And that is what led you to Wapping on the evening of the seventeenth of June 1871?’

‘It is.’

‘What did you do there?’

‘I discharged the cab near a public house. There I sat drinking until the premises closed. I waited in a neighbouring churchyard until the streets had emptied. Around midnight, I descended some stairs that led down from an alley beside the inn to the river. The tide was running
high
, and it was a moonless night. I could hardly have wished for more favourable circumstances in which to jump in without being seen. I had carried a loose coping-stone from the churchyard and intended to strap it to my person in order to weigh me down. It was whilst engaged in that operation that I was surprised by a police launch moving slowly by. They didn’t see me, because I jumped back into the shadows, but they passed by so close that I could hear what was said by the two men on the deck.’

‘What was said?’

‘The first man said something like “Good night for jumpers, George”. I didn’t understand what he meant. Then the other man replied: “It is that. I hooked out two myself last night. Fair turns me up to see them laid out on the deck like fish on the monger’s slab, half the Thames seeping out of their mouths.”’

There were gasps around the court, involuntary expressions of disgust by those for whom Norton’s account had become all too vivid. Mr Justice Wimberley glared at the plaintiff. ‘This is in the worst possible taste, young man. I must ask you to restrain your language.’

‘I am sorry, my Lord, but those were the words used. They had a profound effect on me. After the launch had gone by, I stayed where I was, thinking of how it would be for my family and fiancée if I should be “hooked out”. Somebody would have the gruesome task of identifying me. Worse still, I might be rescued alive. Until then, I had not considered what was physically involved in committing suicide. When I did, it was fatal to my resolution.’