Painting The Darkness (60 page)

‘I’m Richard Davenall,’ the stranger said, holding out his hand. ‘Perhaps you recognize the name.’

O’Shaughnessy did. ‘Your family owns the Carntrassna estate,’ he said, shaking the man’s hand.

‘Yes. Sir James Davenall is my cousin. I represent his interests.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Davenall. What can I do for you?’

‘I wonder if we might have a private word somewhere?’

‘I was thinking of stepping over to the Great Southern for a glass and a bite to eat.’ He caught Curran’s eye: the lad clearly knew he had formed no such intention until confronted by a man who might willingly pay hotel-bar prices on his behalf. O’Shaughnessy’s generosity of spirit, it will be understood, had never excluded himself. ‘You’d be welcome to join me.’

‘It would be my pleasure.’

O’Shaughnessy grinned triumphantly at Curran and slapped his article down on the counter. ‘See this reaches Mr McNamara with my compliments, Liam. It’s for the Friday edition. Explain I couldn’t linger.’ With that, he turned to his English visitor and led the way.

‘You’ve still not told me why you sought me out, Mr Davenall,’ O’Shaughnessy said, half an hour later, relaxing in the afterglow of a meal which his companion had already paid for. ‘It can’t be on account of my scribblings in the
Tribune
. They ruffle no feathers in Dublin, leave alone London.’

‘Mrs Kennedy spoke highly of your work.’

‘You amaze me. I should hardly have thought the Kennedys shared my views.’

‘You’re acquainted with them, then?’

‘Slightly.’

‘Kennedy’s sure my aunt’s murder last year had nothing to do with politics. Do you agree?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Because she was the last of the Fitzwarrens, a well-liked family. And, even as absentees, the Davenalls haven’t been bad landlords. Besides, there’d be no sense in the
Fenians
committing a murder and then not claiming the credit for it. There have been enough political killings in Connaught these past few years – more than enough – for their hallmarks to become well known. In your aunt’s case, they were entirely lacking. But I’m sure the police have already told you that.’

‘Yes. They have.’

‘So in what other respect do Sir James Davenall’s interests concern me?’

‘You followed the court case?’

‘Naturally. Who could resist such a romantic tale? Even here, amidst all the feuds and vendettas, it had them by the ears.’

‘Have you ever met Sir James, Mr O’Shaughnessy?’

‘No.’

‘Or Sir Gervase before him?’

‘No. I haven’t been to Carntrassna for more than thirty years.’

‘What took you there then, might I ask?’

‘My work.’

‘As a journalist?’

‘No. As a teacher.’

‘Mrs Kennedy said you were tutor for some time to the son of their predecessors as agents – the Lennoxes.’

‘That’s right, I was. The Lennoxes educated their boy Stephen at home. They engaged me as his tutor.’

‘A bright boy?’

‘Stephen Lennox was my star pupil, Mr Davenall. I think you could say he had a gift for scholarship. I wish I could have done more to cultivate it. The wilds of Mayo were no place for him, that’s certain. I wanted him to put in for Trinity College, Dublin. He’d have walked it. But his family decided to emigrate instead.’

‘Did that surprise you?’

‘I had no warning, if that’s what you mean. I saw the boy up to Christmas of fifty-nine. Then, without a word, they left.’ It was strange, he reflected, how keenly he still remembered the disappointment of Stephen Lennox being
plucked
away from him, so near the culmination of eight years of tuition. He had harboured a genuine affection for the boy and felt it still, despite all the years that had passed since. ‘It came as a bolt from the blue.’

‘How old was Stephen Lennox at that time, Mr O’Shaughnessy?’

‘Oh, sixteen.’

‘He would have been born when?’

‘1843.’

‘And would be, what, forty now?’

‘Yes. I suppose he would. Still in Canada, presumably.’

‘Where did your classes with him take place?’

O’Shaughnessy frowned. What the devil was the man driving at? ‘The Lennoxes’ home at Murrismoyle, of course.’

‘Not Carntrassna House?’

‘No.’

‘Yet you said your work took you there.’

‘It did on one occasion, when I was first appointed. 1851, that would have been. Lady Davenall interviewed me for the post.’

‘Did that not strike you as odd? After all, strictly speaking, the Lennoxes were your employers, not my aunt. In fact, did it not strike you as odd that the Lennoxes were able to afford a tutor for their son at all?’

‘I was in no position to look a gift-horse in the mouth, Mr Davenall. Andrew Lennox was scarcely the man to bother overmuch about education, it’s true, but he must have made an exception in his son’s case. I was well and regularly paid. I wish I could find such clients now – and such pupils.’

‘You missed the boy when he’d gone?’

‘I confess I did, even more than I missed my fee. He was growing into a fine young man.’

‘What do you remember about him?’

‘He was the model pupil, Mr Davenall. Quick, perceptive, studious, witty. A voracious reader. A considerable intelligence in the making. And courteous
to
boot. It was a pleasure to teach him. A real pleasure.’ He smiled and cast back his thoughts to the hours he had spent with young Stephen in the attic-cum-schoolroom at Murrismoyle. Much of the best of his own learning he had left there, in the ever eager, absorbent mind of that boy. Would that Stephen could have followed him to Trinity College and then made more of his life than he ever had. He remembered their explorations of the classics, their literary sparrings, their historical debates, their nature rambles by the shores of Lough Mask.

‘Would you still recognize him?’

‘I should hope so.’

Richard Davenall reached into his jacket pocket and took out a crumpled photograph which he laid on the table between them. It was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a young man, well groomed and faintly smiling, in ermine-trimmed graduation robes. ‘Could that have been Stephen Lennox at twenty-one?’

O’Shaughnessy looked at the picture in amazement. ‘It could well be. He’d have changed a good deal from the sixteen-year-old I knew, but it has the look of him. In fact I could almost swear it is him. Where did you—?’

‘This is a photograph of my cousin, James Davenall.’

‘The devil it is!’

‘You look surprised.’

‘I am. It’s almost as if …’

‘As if there’s a family resemblance?’

‘Yes. But … there can’t be. Can there?’

V

Since returning to England and moving into Bladeney House, Sir James Davenall had taken up a solitary style of life. Constance, it had been agreed, should remain in Salisbury until her divorce became absolute. In the interim, James did not appear to desire much company of any kind. Such invitations as he received to balls and
soirees
were declined. Those who called at his home were turned away. The successor he appointed to Greenwood (who had insisted on following Hugo to Duke Street) became a specialist in polite refusal.

The one exception James made to this shunning of society was to resume his membership of the Corinthian Club. There, two or three times a week, he would spend a few hours at the bar, in the affable if scarcely intimate company of assorted idlers, loungers and men-about-town who had, he did not doubt, been as sympathetic to Hugo in the past as they were to him in the present.

It is possible that James chose the club as a refuge because it was the one place where he could be sure of not meeting Hugo, his brother having resigned his own membership in a fit of pique. If so, he can have been ill-prepared for the encounter which awaited him there one mid-week evening at the end of October. Hugo, it was to transpire, could not be avoided for ever.

Standing at the bar, swapping improbable solutions to the Sudanese problem with a clutch of fellow-members, James could have been forgiven for failing to notice Freddy Cleveland put his head round the door, then hastily withdraw. Nor, when Freddy returned a short while later and slipped away to a corner, looking furtively unlike his normal gregarious self, did James have cause to pay much heed. After all, if Freddy wished to avoid him, so much the worse for Freddy.

There was, however, more to it than that. After a few minutes, something quite startling occurred. Hugo walked into the room. Without looking at Freddy or anyone else, he stared straight at James and began threading his way towards him through the knots of people, jogging elbows and spilling drinks as he went. By the time he had reached the edge of the group James was standing with, he had caused quite a commotion. Several people had recognized him and called out, several others had protested at his clumsy progress. But Hugo ignored them. His face was
gaunt
and drawn, his gaze unflinching, his concentration absolute.

‘A stranger in the camp,’ somebody said.

‘Yes,’ said James, hiding any surprise that he may have felt. ‘It’s good to see you, Hugo, though somewhat unexpected.’

Everyone else had fallen silent by now. Their attention was fixed on Hugo as he stared unblinkingly at James and said levelly: ‘You bastard, Norton. You lying, scheming bastard.’

Breaths were sharply drawn, worried looks exchanged, disapprovals muttered. The people between James and Hugo must all have stepped back, because, suddenly, they were standing face to face, their eyes contesting the narrow space separating them.

‘I think,’ James said calmly, ‘that you’re rather out of order, brother.’

‘The only brother you have is the devil,’ Hugo snapped back. ‘Stand there smiling as long as you like. Delude my friends as much as you can. Say whatever you please. I know you to be a worthless impostor and I’ve come here tonight to prove it.’

‘I advise you to go home and sleep it off, Hugo. I really do.’

‘Will you withdraw your claim to be my brother? Will you give back all that you’ve stolen from me?’

‘Don’t be absurd. Gentlemen’ – James turned and smiled at those around them – ‘I must apologize on my brother’s behalf. He’s clearly overwrought.’

‘I take it you refuse.’ Hugo seemed oblivious to the touches on his shoulder, the gestures towards the door. ‘If so, I must ask that you give me satisfaction.’

‘What?’

‘You heard. I challenge you to meet me, at a time and place of your choosing, so that we may settle our differences once and for all.’

‘This is preposterous.’

‘I demand it – as of right.’

A silence fell. For an instant, the company stood in awe of his assertion of an ancient code. Then the nonsense that time and changing values had made of that code were borne in upon them. Somebody laughed – a snorting bray of derision. It voiced the contempt which one generation always reserves for the standards of another quite as much as it ridiculed Hugo, but to his cause it was fatal. All around him, the vain and vapid friends who had deserted him chorused their verdict in the sniggers and cackles of a brutal mirth.

Hugo’s face began to twitch, his lower lip to tremble. This was the one issue he had not foreseen. He had thought James would either give him what he demanded or be denounced by the world as a coward. But no. That had never been the choice at all. The world had grown too falsely wise for such indulgences.

‘Go home, Hugo,’ James said mildly. ‘Let us forget this act of folly.’

‘Never.’

‘You must.’

Pettigrew, the steward, had appeared from somewhere and now took Hugo by the arm. ‘Excuse me, Mr Davenall,’ he said. ‘I believe you’re no longer a member of this club. Might I ask you to leave?’

‘Go to the devil!’

‘Be a sensible fellow, Mr Davenall. I must insist you come with me.’

‘Be a sensible fellow.’ Perhaps those were the words which finally laid waste his resolve. The laughter around him, the taunts and mocking gestures – above all, James’s unforgiving stare – lanced into his fragile confidence. With an inaudible sighing curse, a crumpling of the face and a sudden stooping frailty, he turned and let Pettigrew lead him swiftly from the room.

VI

Amongst the callers whom he might have expected on a quiet Friday afternoon at his offices in Cheap Street, Bath, Arthur Baverstock would never have numbered Richard Davenall. Such business as they had been required to conduct in the aftermath of the trial was long since concluded and that, he had assumed, would be the unregretted end of their association.

‘What brings you here, Davenall?’ he said cautiously. ‘You look rather tired.’

He had not exaggerated. Richard Davenall sank into a chair beside the desk with a weary sigh. His clothes were more travel-stained than a journey from London would justify, his features more lined and preoccupied than professional necessity could explain. ‘I’m sorry to call on you unannounced, Baverstock. It’s a matter of some urgency.’

‘You could have telephoned.’ He would, in truth, much have preferred him to.

Davenall shook his head. ‘No, no. I’m here in transit, you see. I arrived in Holyhead by ferry from Dublin this morning and decided to make a detour here on my way to London.’

‘It
is
urgent, then.’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘What took you to Ireland? The Carntrassna estate?’

‘You could say so.’ Davenall’s thoughts seemed to drift for a moment, then he passed a hand across his face, sat up alertly and said: ‘Can I take it Catherine – Lady Davenall – is still pursuing her enquiries into Sir James’s American past?’

Baverstock was thunderstruck. Assurances had been given that such enquiries had ceased. The fact that such assurances were false scarcely warranted, to his mind, Davenall’s scandalous suggestion. ‘You can take nothing of the sort. May I remind you—?’

‘She is, isn’t she?’ The fellow’s drained dogged insistence
seemed
strangely powerful. ‘I know her well enough to realize she wouldn’t abandon the struggle, whatever you felt obliged to tell me on her behalf.’

‘Well, I—’