Painting The Darkness (50 page)

‘Don’t you remember me? Mulholland. Reggie Mulholland.’ He pointed to his companion. ‘And Charlie Borthwick.’

James stroked his chin and looked from one to the other of them. ‘Mulholland and Borthwick,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, of course. You were in the same year as me at Christ Church.’

‘Spot on, old man. You’ve placed us. I’ve put on a bit of weight since then, admittedly, but I’d have known you anywhere. Good to see you again, ain’t it, Charlie?’

‘Certainly is. How are you, Davenall?’

‘Very well, thank you.’ He smiled at each of them in turn.

‘Won’t you introduce me to your friends, James?’ Constance put in.

‘Why, yes, of course,’ said James. ‘But perhaps I should first explain what notorious pranksters these two fellows were at Oxford. It will help you appreciate their little practical joke on this occasion.’

‘Joke?’ said Mulholland, frowning. ‘I don’t quite take your meaning, old man.’

‘You see, Constance, this is Reggie Mulholland’ – he pointed to the one introduced as Borthwick – ‘and this is Charlie Borthwick.’ He pointed to the other. ‘Not, as they would have you believe, the opposite way about.’ The two men stared at him dumbfounded. ‘And the fellow loitering down the slope behind them is, I strongly suspect, a clerk in the employment of Lewis and Lewis, come to witness our reunion. Isn’t that so, Charlie – old man?’

‘This is preposterous,’ Borthwick spluttered. ‘I—’

‘Have they paid you to enact this charade? Or are you doing it for old times’ sake?’

Mulholland plucked at Borthwick’s sleeve. ‘Best give it up, Charlie. He’s seen through us.’

‘He’s just guessing, dammit!’

‘No. Reggie’s quite right. I have seen through you. You’re as transparent as you always were.’

‘Let’s cut along,’ Mulholland muttered. ‘This game’s not worth the candle.’

Borthwick seemed about to contest the point, then all his bluster suddenly deserted him. With a puff of the chest, he turned and retreated, Mulholland following. The third man fell in between them and they marched away down the slope amid sufficient head-tossing and arm-waving to suggest a lively exchange of recriminations.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Constance as they faded from view. ‘What were they trying to do?’

‘They were trying to trick me into providing them with evidence to use in court. It’s clearly been made worth their while to testify against me. Think how much more damaging their testimony would be if I’d been taken in by their exchange of identities.’

‘But how could they think you would be?’

‘I knew them only slightly at Oxford. And it’s thirteen years since I last saw either of them. They must have thought there was a good chance of bringing it off.’

‘Who could have put them up to it?’

‘Who do you think?’

Constance frowned. ‘You mean Hugo?’

‘Or my mother. It hardly matters which. I dare say one of their lawyers actually suggested it – but evidently they didn’t object.’

‘But … to try to trick you like that: it’s shameful.’

James put his arm round her shoulders and held her tightly. ‘It’s only the start, Connie, only the first shot in the campaign. From now on, it’ll be open conflict – with no holds barred.’

II

Proceedings in the case of
Norton versus Davenall
commenced
nisi prius
at the Royal Courts of Justice on 3rd April 1883, with the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Coleridge, presiding. Under his direction, a retinue of QCs and juniors took issue, backed by pensive solicitors and anxious clerks, attended by officious registrars and obsequious ushers, observed by twelve solemn-faced jurors, a scribbling pack of journalists and a varying, ever mobile mass of spectators.

To those closely involved in the case it seemed strange, later, how little they could remember of the days and weeks they were destined to spend in that lofty fan-lit courtroom, as the argument ebbed and flowed about them. At the time, their attention was undivided, their concentration ferocious; but, in retrospect, the phases of its long convoluted drama fused into one indistinct parade of question and answer, accusation and denial, claim and counter-claim.

What can be said with certainty is that it was on the tenth day of the trial that James Norton entered the witness-box. Russell, in his lengthy preamble, had prepared the ground well; but this, everyone knew, was the ultimate test. At the hearing, a single day had seen Norton’s testimony completed, but points which had then been established within minutes were now pored over and analysed for hours at a stretch. It took a week for him to reach the events of 17th June 1871 and another week to bring his story to the present day.

Then came his cross-examination by the defence. Sir Hugo Davenall’s new senior counsel, Mr Aubrey Gilchrist, proved only a marginally less acute inquisitor than his predecessor, Sir Hardinge Giffard. For days on end, he and Norton fenced and parried over the same ground. Sometimes Gilchrist gave place to one of his juniors, but only, it seemed, in the hope of lulling Norton into unwise relaxation. The plaintiff was given no quarter, allowed no rest.
The
search for an opening was tireless, his exertions to prevent one ceaseless.

In the event, Gilchrist was as unsuccessful in challenging Norton’s account of himself as he was incapable of discrediting his recollection of distant events. The colour of the nursery wallpaper at Cleave Court, the name of the dog one of the gamekeepers had accidentally shot in 1857, his academic and sporting career at Eton and Oxford, his friendship with Roland Sumner, his courtship of Constance Sumner, his consultations with Dr Fiveash, his flight from the country in 1871, his subsequent movements and occupations through a dozen cities of Canada and the United States: all this and more was sifted through, and never once did he falter.

Late in the seventh week of the trial, Norton’s cross-examination ended. There was neither fanfare of triumph nor admission of defeat, but it was clear none the less that, thus far even if no further, he had had the better of it.

III

The Times
, London, 21st May 1883: ‘Prince Napoleon has been in England during the last few days on private business; it has been surmised that he would like to obtain from the Empress Eugenie a more explicit recognition of his position as political chief of the Bonapartists than has been vouchsafed to him as yet.’

Plon-Plon flung down the newspaper in disgust and began an ill-tempered patrol of the Chinese rug by the window. It was a mistake to have come to Farnborough Hill, he concluded. The fourth anniversary of the Prince Imperial’s death did not fall until 1st June, but Eugenie was already in a preparatory trance of black-crêped debility: a useful discussion of politics was entirely out of the question.

She had never liked him, he reflected as he gazed gloomily out of the window at the vast and ugly building
taking
shape in the grounds. A mausoleum, he gathered, for the accommodation of her husband, her son, and in due course, herself. An abbey alongside was also planned, for the comfort and convenience of the flock of refugee monks whose bat-like presence threatened to blot out spring in this corner of Hampshire. Not that any of it surprised him, stemming as it did from the perversely pious nature that had made her reject his sexual advances in Madrid in 1843, when she was seventeen and he was in his prime. Forty years later, it was painfully clear that her taste had not improved.

There was a knock at the door, and Brunet came in, but Plon-Plon’s hopes that Eugenie at last felt able to see him were swiftly dashed.

‘A lady wishes to see you,
mon grand seigneur
.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Catherine Davenall.’

‘
Merde!
’ This was bad news indeed. If Eugenie came to hear of his involvement in the Davenall case, he could bid adieu to any hopes of a pact with her. ‘Where is she?’

‘In the red drawing-room.’

‘I will speak to her.’ He hurried to the door. ‘But listen to me, I absolutely forbid any interruptions, do you understand?’

‘Yes,
mon grand seigneur
, absolutely.’

She was standing on the far side of the room when he entered, gazing up at a large oil painting of Eugenie with the Prince Imperial. In the instant it took her to turn round he wondered if they had ever been alone together since her visit to his apartment in Constantinople nearly thirty years ago; on balance, he rather thought not.

She had changed. He could see it in her set and regal bearing, her pale indomitable face. Where once there had been vanity, ignorance and a trusting nature, there was now a hard-won tempered resolve. She had left the errors of youth behind and attained a flawless sense of purpose, whilst for Plon-Plon, alas, the fallibilities of the past
remained
the snares of the present. ‘Madame,’ he said, pressing the door shut behind him and inclining his head in the faintest of bows. ‘
A votre service
.’

Catherine made no move towards him. Across the carpeted gap of the drawing-room, their glances joined, acknowledged their differences, and parted. ‘I have come to ask for your help,’ she said abruptly.

Plon-Plon frowned. For one who had long shown him nothing but the coldest contempt now to seek his assistance, with neither apology nor explanation, was incomprehensible. ‘My help, madame?’

‘There is nobody else I can ask.’ Her expression implied, though she did not say, that he was, in truth, the very last person she would turn to. ‘You have followed Hugo’s lawsuit?’

‘
Avec l’imposteur
? Of course.’

‘
L’imposteur
, as you correctly term him, has made an excellent impression on the court.’

‘So the newspapers tell me.’

‘In the opinion of my lawyers, Norton will win the case.’

‘They have said that?’

‘No. I observe that they think it. What they tell me is quite different.’

‘Have you no witnesses to speak against him?’

‘A positive regiment, I believe. But they will not prevail.’

‘You are certain?’

‘Yes. If I were not James’s mother, I would be taken in by this man. The jury believe him, and the judge is inclined to. The case has many weeks to run, but its outcome is already decided.’

‘Then, you have my sympathy.’

‘That, Prince, is of no use to me. What I require is your help.’

Plon-Plon walked slowly across the room towards her, until they were standing at either end of the painting she had been inspecting. He glanced up at it and curled his
lip
: Eugenie looked matronly and prematurely old in her widow’s weeds, the Prince Imperial callow and faintly ridiculous in his Woolwich cadet’s uniform. ‘This house,’ he remarked, ‘is full of memorials to the Empress’s late son, as you may have observed. A mausoleum-in-waiting, you might say, until the genuine article is complete.’

‘I had noticed.’

‘Eugenie carries her bereavement with her like a pack on her back, like a ball and chain about her feet.’ He looked directly at Catherine and continued: ‘But you, madame, never mention your dead son, as distinct from his impersonator. Why is that?’

‘James is dead. He belongs to the past. I do not.’

Plon-Plon shook his head in puzzlement. ‘So frank, decisive, so … detached. You were not always so.’

‘I dare say neither of us, Prince, wishes to be reminded of what we
were
.’

‘
Touché, madame. C’est vrai
.’

A flicker of impatience passed across Catherine’s face, as if the discomfort of their encounter was one she wished to foreshorten. ‘I have come to speak to you about Vivien Strang,’ she said suddenly.

Plon-Plon stepped back in amazement. ‘Vivien Strang?’

‘You were eager enough to speak to me about her in Constantinople, were you not?’

‘A long time ago, madame.’ He struggled to recover his dignity. ‘You said yourself that such reminders were unwelcome.’

‘I simply wish to know where she is.’

‘You think I can tell you?’

‘You know more of her life since she left my father’s house in 1846 than I do. You knew she was pregnant – and by whom. You knew she was nursing in the Crimea. I hoped, therefore, that you might still know something of her.’

‘No, madame. I know nothing of her.’

‘Yet you have guessed, as I have, that she is behind this conspiracy against my family.’

So. He was not alone in his suspicions. ‘I have … guessed that. Yes.’

‘But you have done nothing about it.’

‘What should I have done? It is not evidence. It is not proof. And why should I have done anything even if I could? Since we are being so very candid, madame, pray tell me what I could possibly gain from becoming involved in this …
cause célèbre
.’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing, Prince. Nothing at all.’ She turned and moved slowly to the window, where she gazed out for what seemed an age before looking back at him. ‘Gervase raped her, I ruined her – and you deceived her. What we have done to her is unforgivable.’

‘You admit these things?’

‘I admit them to you because you and I alone know the truth. To have it known to the world would be only marginally less awful than for Norton to win his case. I have told nobody that I suspect he is my husband’s son by my former governess, that his resemblance to James is that of a half-brother, that his motivation is his mother’s desire for revenge. I have told nobody – because nobody must know. But you and I already share the secret, do we not? So there is nothing to be lost by telling you.’

‘But what is it that you want me to do?’

‘It was you who deceived her. I thought you might now be able to dissuade her.’

‘
Moi?
’

‘I gather what drew her to the maze that night was the prospect of meeting you. Perhaps, therefore, she might be prepared to meet you again – and to call off her son.’

‘
C’est absurde
. She would do nothing for me, even supposing I could find her.’

‘What she would never accept from me she might accept from you. A compromise. A settlement out of court.’

‘It would not work, madame. If you are right – if
we
are right … she has planned this too long to be deflected now.’