Painting The Darkness (52 page)

‘Is Miss Nightingale at home?’ Plon-Plon asked.

‘To whom?’ said the commissionaire in a deep tolling voice.

‘Prince Napoleon Bonaparte.’

‘Have you an appointment?’

‘No, but—’

‘Then, Miss Nightingale is
not
at home.’

Plon-Plon glowered at the fellow in his most intimidating fashion. ‘This is a matter of some importance, my good man.’

‘Not to Miss Nightingale.’

Plon-Plon took a deep breath. ‘Will you at least ask her if she will see me?’

‘It’ll do no good. Mr Gladstone called last week without an appointment. She wouldn’t see him, either.’

‘Nevertheless—’

‘If you insist, I’ll
ask
.’

‘I do insist.’

‘She’ll want to know the purpose of your visit.’

‘Say it concerns a nurse who worked under her in the Crimea. Miss Vivien Strang.’

With a grunt, the commissionaire retreated, leaving Plon-Plon to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. He turned, locked eyes with a woman walking her dog on the
other
side of the street, and turned back. At length, the commissionaire reappeared.

‘Miss Nightingale is prepared to see you,’ the fellow announced, with no change in his expression. Plon-Plon was about to step into the house when he added: ‘Tuesday of next week. Three o’clock.’

‘What?’

‘If you’ll take my advice, you won’t be late. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

VIII

For two men who lived under the same roof, Richard Davenall and James Norton had seen remarkably little of each other in recent months. Whether by accident or by design, they had only conversed at any length in the presence of others. Since visiting Wapping together on 14th February (an occasion to which neither of them ever now referred), they had moved inexorably apart, maintaining all the outward courtesies but secretly awaiting the moment when their charade of fellowship could be ended.

That moment, as both knew, would be when the protracted legal action in which they shared a common cause was successfully concluded. Until then, neither could risk the consequences of open disagreement. Whatever he truly thought, Richard had to testify on James’s behalf and he had to do so without revealing one shred of doubt for the defence to seize upon. He was, after all, the only member of the Davenall family who had acknowledged the plaintiff. The part he had to play was crucial.

Inevitably, therefore, the weekend before Richard’s testimony was due to begin provided a stern examination of the two men’s nerves. By Sunday evening, they were both, it seemed, eager to break the silence that had reigned so long between them. When Constance retired to bed, they did not, as had been their custom, retreat to
separate
rooms. Instead they sat by the drawing-room fire, with brandy and cigars, calmly discussing the progress of the trial as if their unity of purpose had never been questioned. Not that, in the legal sense, it had been. Richard’s doubts centred less on James’s claim than on his methods of advancing it, and these were not referred to, even obliquely, until, towards midnight, Richard suddenly and significantly changed the subject.

‘Constance’s divorce is likely to be heard during the second week of June,’ he said abruptly.

‘She will be glad to have it settled,’ James replied.

‘As will you?’

‘I will be glad for her sake.’

‘Has she said much to you about it?’

‘I gather there should be no difficulty. She speaks highly of your handling of the matter.’

Richard smiled drily: it was evident he took no pleasure from the compliment. ‘It has been remarkably straightforward. Of course, Trenchard is in no position to defend the action. Indeed, Bucknill will be happy to tell the court how beneficial he feels a clean break will be to his patient’s condition. Accordingly, it should go through very much on the nod.’

James said nothing. They contemplated each other in the wavering firelight, listened to the spatter of passing rain at the back of the chimney and drew on their cigars with all the practised composure that had become the measure of their distrust.

‘As to Trenchard’s condition, would you like to know what Bucknill told me?’

‘
Is
there anything to know?’

‘There has been no change, certainly. Trenchard is said to be subdued and uncommunicative, still very much in the grip of the delusions which Bucknill first identified.’

‘No doubt that was to be expected.’

‘No doubt.’ Another stealthy searching pause. ‘He is permitted visitors, you know.’

‘Really?’

‘But I gather he has received none.’

‘That, too, does not surprise me.’

‘No?’

‘We both met his brother. A dry dog. There’s little feeling there, I suspect. As for Constance, I know she believes it will be easier for them to meet
after
this is settled.’

‘And you?’

James frowned. ‘The fellow tried to kill me, Richard. Whilst I realize he wasn’t responsible for his actions at the time, you can hardly expect me to pretend it didn’t happen.’

‘Yet you pay his asylum fees. You pay to ensure he has the best treatment available.’

James’s frown became irritable. ‘When that was agreed, I asked that it be treated as strictly confidential. I asked, as I recall, that it never be mentioned.’

Richard inclined his head in a gesture of apology. ‘You did indeed. I’m sorry. It’s simply that I never properly understood your reasons.’

‘I didn’t want Constance to have any cause to reproach herself for agreeing to his confinement. At the same time, I didn’t want her to feel beholden to me. Hence Ticehurst. Hence the secrecy.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Richard said slowly, leaning forward to look at him more closely. ‘Of course.’

James drained his glass. ‘What other reason could there possibly have been?’

Richard delayed his reply long enough to leave no doubt of its insincerity. ‘None at all, of course.’ There was a moment of level-eyed scrutiny, then he added: ‘It’s really very generous of you. Very generous indeed.’ But generosity was not the motive he was imputing to James. Clearer than any words could explain, he was telling him that he did not believe James was seeking to protect Constance’s conscience by his provision for Trenchard. He believed he was seeking to protect his own.

IX

Plon-Plon had expected Florence Nightingale to be the slim and saintly figure of Crimean myth. He had not expected a stout, red-faced, rudely healthy old lady with absurd pretensions to invalidity. But such was the woman who received him in her South Street drawing-room promptly at three on the appointed afternoon. Clad in the most shapeless black dress, shawled and scarfed against imaginary draughts and reclining on a couch with supplies of sal volatile on hand, she irresistibly reminded him of the wolf disguised as Little Red Riding-Hood.

‘It is many years,’ she announced, in tones which suggested she began many sentences with the words, ‘since I was fit to receive visitors standing – or even sitting.’

‘No matter, madame,’ Plon-Plon relied. ‘The honour of meeting you eclipses all niceties.’

‘It is also many years since I had time for idle flattery.’ Clearly, nothing ailed her sense of purpose. ‘I agreed to see you because you spoke of Nurse Strang. For no other reason.’

‘You remember her, then?’

‘Of course. I am surprised, however, that you should wish to recall her to my mind – or to your own.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she offended you when you visited Scutari in November 1854. And she embarrassed me by so doing.’

‘Ah. Our contretemps on that occasion came to your attention? Well, it was a long time ago. There is no need to apolo—’

‘I was not about to,’ Miss Nightingale cut in. ‘As an uninvited visitor to a busy hospital, you had only yourself to blame.’

Plon-Plon took a deep breath. ‘I must have misunderstood you, madame. You did speak of your
embarrassment
.’

‘I refer to the profound disapproval which, as Superintendent of the Female Nursing Establishment
at
Scutari, I was bound to express when one of my staff needlessly demeaned her calling.’

‘Ah. I see.’

‘What is it you wish to discuss with me about Nurse Strang?’

‘I am trying to find her. I hoped you might be able to assist me.’

Miss Nightingale transferred her gaze to Plon-Plon from the window where it had, till now, been directed. ‘Why should you wish to find her?’

Plon-Plon smiled grimly. ‘Let me not intrude upon your valuable time with lengthy explanations.’

‘Very well. At all events, I fear I cannot help you. Nurse Strang’s whereabouts are unknown to me. Following her encounter with you, I dismissed her and sent her back to England.’

‘You dismissed her?’

‘Certainly. I could not allow such conduct to go unpunished. “
Pour décourager les autres
”, you understand.’

‘Have you no idea where she went?’

‘As I say, back to England, by the first available boat, third class, on salt rations.’ Plon-Plon winced. ‘What she did once she was home I really cannot say. She may have continued nursing, she may not. I have neither seen nor heard of her since then.’

‘I thought you might have … an address.’

‘She was recruited from one of the London hospitals to join the nursing party I took to Constantinople in October 1854. She was one of the more reliable members, as I recall. Until, of course, the lapse which led to her dismissal. That is all I can tell you.’ She glanced sharply at Plon-Plon’s disappointed face. ‘If you have no further questions, I should like to return to my paper on Indian sanitation. The Viceroy has urgent need of my conclusions.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Much good may he have of them, Plon-Plon thought as he rose to his feet. Then, as Miss Nightingale reached for the bell with which to summon
the
commissionaire, he added: ‘
Pardon, madame
. I do have one last question.’

‘Yes?’ Miss Nightingale sounded impatient.

‘Do you know what provision Miss Strang made for her child during her absence from the country?’

‘Child?’

‘Did you not know she had one?’

The cowled red face darkened with indignation. ‘Nurse Strang was a spinster. A
child
’ – the stress she laid on the word made it sound like a disfiguring disease – ‘would have disbarred her from nursing in any hospital I had charge of.’

‘You did not know, then?’

‘I most certainly did not.’ She rang the bell and shuddered at the suggestion he had just made. ‘Good afternoon, Prince.’

X

On the first day of June, and the forty-fourth day of the trial, Russell informed Lord Coleridge that the plaintiff’s case was complete. It was evident from the tone of his voice that he believed it was not simply complete, but impregnable. Richard Davenall had been the last witness he had called and in some ways the most effective: not merely a member of the Davenall family firmly convinced of Norton’s identity, but a lawyer, whose cautious, meticulous, unsensational testimony was of the stuff to impress a judge as well as a jury. Russell’s whole manner suggested that he could not imagine the defence being able to make good the damage such evidence had done. Whether he would have remained so confident had he overheard a whispered conversation between his client and his solicitor as the court dispersed that afternoon is, of course, impossible to say.

‘Lechlade has completed his enquiries into that other
matter
,’ Warburton said to Norton as they were filing out.

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Concerning Trenchard.’

‘It is as I supposed?’

‘Yes. Five visits since the middle of February. All by the same person.’

‘And that person is?’

‘Richard Davenall.’

Norton nodded.

‘You don’t look surprised.’

‘That, Mr Warburton, is because I’m not.’

Chapter Fifteen

I

WHEN GILCHRIST OPENED
for the defence, there was no doubting the efficiency with which he marshalled the evidence against the plaintiff: a mother who claimed not to know him, discrepancies in handwriting and differences in appearance which it was doubtful an absence of twelve years could alone explain, the mystery of his recovery from syphilis, the assorted friends and acquaintances who remained unconvinced of his identity, the occasional vaguenesses in the account he had given of his life in exile. But efficiency, it had become clear, would not be enough. Gilchrist would need to appeal to the jury’s hearts as well as to their heads.

To do this, it was generally agreed, he would have to call upon more than cool argument and a battery of expert witnesses. The real source of the defence’s strength was the Davenall family. Richard, it was true, had gone over to the other side, but neither Sir Hugo nor Lady Davenall had spoken at the hearing, although, if the plaintiff was to be believed, they were his closest relatives. In what they would say, therefore, lay Gilchrist’s best chance and Norton’s greatest peril.

In Sir Hugo’s case, the peril was short-lived. Even under Gilchrist’s sympathetic questioning, he contrived to seem graspingly self-centred. He was given ample opportunity to protest that Norton’s claim insulted the memory of his
dead
brother, but he seemed unable to sustain the theme. At every step, with every ill-humoured answer, he revealed the true state of his feelings: his wealth and his status were threatened, and he would not surrender them to any man, even, by implication, the brother to whom they rightfully belonged.

This air of sulky petulance proved Sir Hugo’s undoing during his cross-examination. Russell succeeded, without seeming to try, in portraying him to the jury of solid, hard-working, middle-class men as a feckless, dissolute young wastrel, given to high living and free spending, whose reaction to Norton’s arrival on the scene was that of a spoilt child to the realization that he can no longer have his way.

‘Is it not true,’ said Russell at one point, ‘that your father refused to have James pronounced legally dead?’

‘Who told you that?’ Sir Hugo’s response was typically peevish.