Painting The Darkness (56 page)

‘How long will you be away?’

‘Three months or so. By the time we return, there will
only
be a short while to wait before we can marry. At that point, with Constance beside me as my wife, I will feel able to discharge my responsibilities as I would wish.’

After all that had happened, Sir James’s need of a period of recuperation was understandable, and Richard was the obvious choice to oversee his affairs whilst he was away. It was strange, therefore, that when they fell to discussing the details of what would be involved a hint arose that rather more than mere stewardship was at issue. Nothing specific was said on either side but, somehow, it did not need to be. Their understanding of each other was sufficient for the implication to be clear and the inference obvious. Once Richard accepted responsibility for Sir James’s interests, any doubts he still harboured about him would either have to be set aside for good or brought into the open at last. And accept he did. The unspoken challenge was taken up.

II

In one of the dining-boxes of a luridly decorated casino-cum-supper-house near Leicester Square, Hugo Davenall was seeking to cauterize the wound his pride had recently suffered with an excess of food, drink and raucous company.

Cheers, whistles and stamps greeted the newest arrival on the small stage at the centre of the throng: a scantily dressed song-girl constituting the most daring act yet on the ever racier programme. Behind and above her, flaring gas-jets and bottle-plug candle-flames danced in banks of cheap crystal, while smoke swirled in the cavernous mouths of gilt-framed mirrors.

Hugo glanced contemptuously at the snoring figure beside him of Toby Leighton, then looked across the table at Freddy Cleveland, who drained another glass, replaced the cigar in his mouth, and smiled crookedly back.

‘You look horribly sober, Hugo,’ Cleveland remarked.

‘I’ve drunk the same as you, bottle for bottle.’

‘You wouldn’t know it. Still thinkin’ about the case?’

‘How can I forget it? I can’t go home tonight without remembering
he
owns the bed I sleep in. I can’t put my name to a cheque without remembering it’s
his
money I’ll be drawing on. God damn it, Freddy’ – he crashed his glass down on the table – ‘the bastard’s taken everything from me! You expect me to forget that?’

‘You’re goin’ to have to, old man. What choice d’you have?’

Hugo gazed into the darkness beyond their table. ‘That fellow Trenchard had the right idea. It’s a pity he didn’t finish the job.’

‘Maybe, but look where it got him: the madhouse.’

‘In my father’s day, I could have called Norton out. That would have settled his hash.’

‘Or yours, old man. With your marksmanship, you’d be lucky to hit a tart’s arse at five paces.’

But Hugo was proof against humour and reason alike. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated, for a brief moment, the possibility of revenge. ‘If Norton was in my sights, I’d hit the target, believe me.’

‘That’s the champagne talkin’.’

‘Then what would you have me do?’

‘Make your peace with the fellow. The world calls him your brother: go along with ’em. If you don’t …’

‘He’ll cut me off without a penny.’ Hugo nodded bleakly.

‘Reckon so, old man. Reckon that’s just what he’ll do.’

Hugo ground his teeth. ‘Damn the man, Freddy,’ he muttered. ‘Damn the bloody man.’

At that, Cleveland plucked the cigar from his mouth and struggled to adopt a serious expression. ‘Take my advice: swallow your pride and make it up with him. D’you know what Bullington said to me last week?’

Bullington was generally held to be the power behind the chair of their club committee. Hugo looked at his friend with a stirring of curiosity. ‘What did he say?’

‘That the committee’s thinkin’ of invitin’ James to resume his membership. After all, he never formally resigned.’

‘They wouldn’t do that to me!’

‘They would. They
will
. If you go on opposin’ him, you’ll be floggin’ a dead horse. It’ll put you distinctly out of favour. Maybe
out
altogether.’

Hugo’s mouth sagged open, but he said nothing. He stared at the green distorted reflection of himself in the champagne-bottle. Behind him, through gusts of music and laughter, came a high-pitched whine only he could detect, a mosquito-buzz of ridicule that threatened to grow into the deafening roar of his destruction.

III

Richard Davenall, Canon Sumner and little Patience, with her nanny, were at Victoria station to see James, Constance and Emily off on the boat-train. Barely three weeks had passed since the end of the trial, but, despite many last-minute panics, all the necessary preparations had been completed, mainly thanks to Emily, who had organized her maiden venture abroad with the precision of a seasoned traveller.

Canon Sumner had failed to comprehend the need for such a hasty departure, but nobody had seen fit to enlighten him. Patience, of course, being too young to appreciate how long her mother would be away, was likewise in ignorance. And Emily was so flattered to be asked and excited to be going that she had not quibbled about the timing.

As a slamming of doors and gathering of steam signalled the imminence of departure, Richard stepped back to let Canon Sumner impress upon James some last concerns for his daughters’ welfare, whilst Constance and Emily made a farewell fuss of Patience.

Richard was happy, in truth, to stand a little aloof from
the
sentiment of the scene, relieved not to have to wish James a platitudinous
bon voyage
. He let his gaze wander along the platform, where many a fond adieu was being exchanged. He saw the guard at the back of the train clamp a whistle between his teeth and raise the green flag. Then, just as he was about to look back at his friends, he noticed a porter hurrying a latecomer past the guard’s disapproving glare: a woman, slim, elegant and darkly clad, seemingly without luggage. She stepped aboard, and the door closed behind her. As it did so, Richard caught a glimpse of her face, turned momentarily to look in his direction. He knew her. As the guard unfurled his flag and blew his whistle, Richard realized who she was: the woman at the hospital who had been asking after James, the woman whose appearance was so uncannily close to Trenchard’s description of Melanie Rossiter.

For a second, he was too dumbstruck to act. Then it was too late. The train was moving. Patience was being held up by her nanny to wave goodbye through the piston steam. Constance and Emily were waving back. James, standing behind them, had raised his hand to Canon Sumner. The train was slowly accelerating. Richard’s companions were walking after it along the platform to delay the last exchange of blown kisses. But Richard stood where he was, staring straight ahead as the row of lowered windows and smiling occupants slid past him.

One window was empty. The compartment he had seen her enter flashed by too quickly for him to see if she was sitting in it, but, even had she not been, he could not have doubted the evidence of his own eyes. Once might have been a coincidence, a misapprehension founded on a chance resemblance. But now there could be no mistake. She existed. She was real. And she was following James Davenall.

IV

From the spacious precincts of Cleave Court, Catherine Davenall had moved to a rented house in Brock Street, Bath. Despite the loss of most of her servants and all of her much-loved gardens, however, her spirit was undimmed. Undeterred by the ostracism of those who thought her conduct disgraceful and the restrictions imposed by her reduced circumstances, she remained as proud and as self-possessed as ever.

Nor had she, whatever Richard Davenall might have been told to the contrary, abandoned her struggle with the man the world now called her son. When Arthur Baverstock called on her one afternoon in late August, it was on no trivial errand: he had come to report the progress of continuing enquiries into the mysterious past of James Norton.

Alas for Baverstock, he had little to report. ‘Mr Lewis is of the opinion,’ he explained, ‘that we shall make no headway whilst we continue to deal through intermediaries. He feels we should send a member of his staff to the United States to conduct a thorough investigation.’

‘Tell him to go ahead, Mr Baverstock. I wish for no half-measures.’

He had feared she would say as much. It obliged him to express his own unflattering reservations. ‘Such a course of action would commit you to substantial expenditure, your Ladyship.’

‘That is no matter.’

Baverstock squirmed. ‘But, as Mr Lewis points out, your resources are not as considerable as they were. He fears—’

‘Let me be the judge of what my resources are or are not equal to.’ Her glare had lost none of its power to intimidate him. ‘I wish no stone to be left unturned and I will pay whatever that costs. Tell Mr Lewis he may have his money in advance if he wishes.’

‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’

‘I hope it will not be. I am enduring this modest standard of accommodation, Mr Baverstock, in order to ensure that the search for the truth about this man can continue to the end.’

Baverstock, who secretly believed the truth was already known, nodded in agreement. ‘Of course, of course.’

‘He believes he has beaten me. That will make him complacent. Complacency breeds carelessness. The longer it goes on, the likelier it becomes that he will make a fatal mistake. It is all I ask of him.’

‘Yes, your Ladyship.’

‘I know you and Mr Lewis believe I am pursuing a pointless vendetta. Don’t trouble to deny it. But its results will surprise you – rely upon that. We are taking steps to monitor his movements on the Continent, I trust?’

‘Yes, indeed. Mr Lewis has one of his best people on it.’

‘Good. His eagerness to quit the country interests me. It may be an elaborate method of contacting his principals. If there are any developments, however trivial, I wish to be informed at once.’

‘You will be, your Ladyship.’

‘Be sure I am. He thinks he is safe now, Mr Baverstock, so very safe. But it is not so. In truth, his peril is greater than before. Whilst there is breath in my body, he will not want for an enemy.’

This last Baverstock did not doubt. Lady Davenall’s objective was clear. Only in the possibility of its fulfilment did he have no faith.

V

It was the last day of August, grey and crushingly hot. Richard Davenall sat in his office, gazing out at the weary ferment of Holborn, trying and failing to apply his mind to the work he had on hand.

The weather, or something more insidious, had sapped him of energy. Why, he wondered, was he still pursuing
doubts
his rational mind ought to shed? Only a few days before, he had received a letter from Constance in Salzburg proclaiming that all was well. There had been nothing in anything she wrote to sustain his belief that Melanie Rossiter was following them. Maybe he had not seen her after all. Maybe he had imagined doing so. Maybe he was simply losing his grip.

When Benson put his head round the door, Richard assumed it was to report nothing more spectacular than the arrival of the afternoon post. Instead, he said: ‘There’s a man wanting to see you, sir. Without an appointment.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He says he’s Alfred Quinn.’

Suddenly, after all the efforts Roffey had made to find him, suddenly, when it was too late to matter, Quinn had come.

He had changed little with the years. A short muscular figure in tweeds, holding a bowler hat by his side. The short-cropped hair was rather greyer than before and extended now to a beard, but otherwise he was much the same: stiff-backed and square-shouldered, with a pugnacious bearing, steely-eyed and expressionless, his whole uncompromising demeanour hinting at sides to his character he was too cautious to reveal.

Richard stood up and rounded the desk, holding out his hand and smiling, concealing shock and curiosity behind the insincerity of his greeting. ‘It
is
Quinn, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’ His handshake was that of a strong man, his smile that of a grim one. ‘I heard you were looking for me.’

‘We
were
, yes. Did you not know about the case?’

‘Not while it was going on. I’ve been in New Zealand for the past two years. Only got back last week. That’s when I heard that James –
Sir
James, I should say – had reappeared.’

‘You’ve been in New Zealand?’

‘That’s right. My uncle emigrated there in the forties and took to sheep-farming. Twenty years ago, they found
gold
on his land. He became a wealthy man. The first I knew of it was when I heard he’d died – and left it all to me. Seems I was his only living relative. So I’ve been over there, settling my inheritance, you might say.’

‘What brought you back?’

‘I’d sooner end my days in England than in Otago, sir. I sold up – for a good price. I’ve come home to enjoy my retirement. Hearing about Sir James … well, that
was
a turn-up for the books. I thought I’d come and pay my respects to him.’

‘He’s abroad at present, on holiday.’

‘I’m sorry to have missed him. Perhaps there’ll be an opportunity when he returns.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear of your good fortune.’

‘I’m sure of that, too, sir.’

The pace of Richard’s unspoken thoughts had drained his remarks of originality. Could it be true? Had Roffey been mistaken all along? A windfall inheritance in New Zealand explained Quinn’s absence and his evident prosperity just as well as a life of crime in London. If he was to be believed, Trenchard could never have encountered him. And, if Trenchard had imagined that, perhaps he had imagined Melanie Rossiter as well. ‘What are your plans, then?’ he said lamely.

‘I’ve a yen to try my hand in the racehorse game, sir. I’m negotiating the purchase of some stables near Newmarket. Working with horses was what I most enjoyed in the Army. It’ll be good to be involved with them again.’

‘An expensive pursuit, I believe.’

Quinn nodded. ‘It is that, sir. But now I have the money there’s nothing to prevent me indulging myself.’

‘I suppose not.’ So Quinn, too, had fallen on his feet. The whims of fate, thought Richard, were strange indeed. The dismissed servant of four years before had stepped off the boat from New Zealand with more money to his name than his former employer. He took his pick of Newmarket stables, whilst she paid rent on a terraced
house
in Bath. ‘You must be sure to let me have your address, Quinn, so that Sir James can look you up.’