Painting The Darkness (9 page)

IV

It had rained all morning in Holborn. The traffic had reduced the street to squelching lines of mud, whilst standing pools in sluggish gutters encroached on the crowded pavements. Awnings dripped and horses steamed; costermongers cursed and carts lurched; the louring clouds choked and smeared the business of the day. Every surface was clammy, every small silence invaded by the irregular percussion of the rain. Where did the river end and the city begin? No man, squinting and storm-collared, could be certain on such a day as this.

It was wanting but an hour to noon, yet, in confirmation of the conditions, the gas-lamps burned in the partners’ room of Warburton, Makepeace & Thrower, the high gallery windows that looked up Gray’s Inn Road doing little to relieve the gloom. Rain washed the mullioned glass and cast its mobile shadow on the plaster friezework; an unfastened stay rattled periodically at a lofty transom; coal sputtered and flared in a draughty grate; and Hector Warburton called the meeting to order.

‘Gentlemen, now that introductions are concluded, may we begin?’

Warburton was seated at the head of the table, in the high-backed chair normally reserved for his father: the fire was behind him and so did nothing to light his pale and predatory features. Not so James Norton, who sat to his left, leaning slightly forward, with hands resting calmly on the table, his expression clear-browed and placidly expectant, firelight catching in his eyes a look bordering on the arrogantly confident. Opposite him, Warburton’s clerk, Lechlade, stooped diligently over his papers, making a preliminary note of the proceedings. Next to Lechlade, Sir Hugo Davenall was all frenetic movement and gesture,
his
hands forever twitching at pockets and cuffs, his eyes darting around the table, seldom resting anywhere for long and never on Norton. His cousin, Richard, regarded him impassively from the other side of the table, exerting himself to display only level-headed legalistic concern for his client but wishing, more in the way of an anxious uncle, that he would sit still and stop smoking: the broken smouldering backs of three cigarettes already stood in an ashtray by Sir Hugo’s elbow.

At Richard Davenall’s shoulder was his fellow-lawyer, Arthur Baverstock, ill at ease in his present surroundings, and opposite Baverstock, combining this state with barely disguised impatience to be elsewhere, was Dr Duncan Fiveash. He had travelled from Bath under duress, knowing better than to antagonize such a wealthy client as Lady Davenall by declining to go but not troubling to hide his resentment from her lawyer. Now he chewed his beard, fiddled with an empty pipe in his breast pocket and consoled himself with the thought of being away by noon and visiting old Emery at St Thomas’s. Fiveash was not a young man, nor any longer an ambitious one. These factors, whilst they did not liberate him from the necessity of attendance, at least relieved him of the obligation to pretend that it was an honour.

It was the strangely mixed company to which Fiveash took particular exception: sundry Davenalls, with all the many and excessive insights into their ways a medical man was bound to have after treating three generations of their ailments; a bevy of parsimonious lawyers eager to prolong proceedings in proportion to the growth of their fees, whereas there was nothing in this for him save a dubious quantity of goodwill; and a trio of family friends: one stout choleric French nobleman whom he vaguely recalled and who appeared to be suffering from indigestion, to judge by his frequent shiftings of weight in the chair; an unexceptional preoccupied fellow to his right named Trenchard; and, at the end of the table, lolling back in his seat and engaged in an effort to blow smoke
rings
which the current of air from the upper windows rendered pointless, a flippant idler introduced to him as Freddy Cleveland. Fiveash despaired of them all and turned his attention to the chairman.

‘My client,’ Warburton was explaining, ‘insisted that this meeting should take place despite my advice to the contrary. I pointed out to him that he was under no obligation to give those who disputed his identity a second opportunity to do so short of the court hearing to which I felt he should have early recourse.’

‘So you—’ Sir Hugo began, but was at once cut short by his cousin.

‘I would suggest Mr Warburton be allowed to finish,’ Richard Davenall said emphatically. Sir Hugo snorted and subsided into silence.

‘Thank you,’ said Warburton, with a nod in Davenall’s direction. ‘As I say, I advised my client that, if he agreed to such a meeting, you on your side would, in all likelihood, ensure that only those whose hostility could be utterly relied upon would attend.’ He looked slowly round the table. ‘Such, indeed, appears to be the case, as I foresaw.’ A faint smile. ‘My client insisted, nevertheless, that we should go ahead. He believed – and I am sure you will agree that the sentiment does him only credit – that his family should be given every opportunity to acknowledge him before their refusal to do so became public. He believed that by this time, the initial shock of his reappearance having somewhat subsided, you might feel able to abandon your denial of his identity, with no residual ill will on either side. He has emphasized—’

Sir Hugo brought the flat of his hand down on the table in front of him with the force of renewed anger, shocking Warburton into silence. He glared across at Norton. ‘I’ll see you, and your case, and your lawyer—’

‘Please! Hugo!’ Richard Davenall had intervened once again. And, once again, Sir Hugo gave way, though with greater reluctance.

‘Say your piece, Mr Warburton,’ he concluded sarcastically.

‘Thank you. It is simply this: Take this opportunity to forget the unfortunate course of recent events by accepting the self-evident truth of James Davenall’s reappearance or proceed to a long and expensive court-case which will end in your defeat and, in all probability, the lasting division of your family. My client wishes to avert these consequences. He hopes that you will do the same.’

Sir Hugo this time said nothing. It was Richard Davenall who responded, in measured tones. ‘I am bound to say on Sir Hugo’s behalf that Mr Norton’s proposal is both deeply offensive and completely unacceptable. No member of the late James Davenall’s family has entertained Mr Norton’s claim for a moment. The man is a stranger to them. His attempt to pass himself off as their deceased relative has occasioned them both anguish and outrage. If he swears in writing, here and now, to withdraw his claim, Sir Hugo will make no more of it. Failing that, Sir Hugo will seek an injunction against Mr Norton and will take out a private prosecution against him. Those are our terms, which I believe to be, if anything, over-generous. If Mr Norton had hopes of an
ex gratia
payment – what I believe is known as “nuisance money” – I must tell him that it will not be countenanced.’ He turned to Baverstock. ‘I believe that is also Lady Davenall’s position?’

Baverstock cleared his throat. ‘It is.’

Silence intruded, an interval of entrenchment in the irreconcilable positions so clearly stated. Cleveland’s chair creaked as he swung back on it. Sir Hugo drummed his ringers. The fire spat. And Norton raised one eyebrow in a slight but unmistakable signal to Warburton that he was ready to speak.

His tone was low and mellow, his inflexion perfectly suited to the occasion: determination veined with sorrow. ‘It is the deepest grief to me that my family will not acknowledge me. I know you feel wronged by my earlier deceit of you, but do not, I pray, let that stand now
between
us. Had my father lived, it would, I think, have been different—’

‘Had my father lived,’ Sir Hugo put in, ‘you’d not have come fortune-hunting.’

Norton continued, as if uninterrupted. ‘I believe he held out against my being legally pronounced dead. I conclude he had guessed the truth. Would that I could have found him living still. But that cannot be helped.’ He grew thoughtful. ‘I cannot call the dead as witnesses, save in one sense to which I will return later. Nor can I, on this occasion, call upon the two people who have acknowledged me and are conspicuous by their absence today: Miss Pursglove, whom you will say is too old to be relied upon; and Mrs Trenchard, whose husband is here to contradict all that has passed between us.’ Trenchard said nothing and looked straight ahead. ‘Very well. I understand why you wish I were really dead, Hugo. Believe me, I do. I even understand why you, Richard, should feel obliged to fall in with the prevailing view. As for you, Freddy, I dare say you are already running a book on the outcome.’

‘I say, dammit—’

Norton held up his hand. ‘Hear me out, please,’ he said mildly. ‘I understand why you, Trenchard, should not want your wife’s former fiancé to return from the dead; why you, Dr Fiveash, should have been able to persuade yourself that I am not your former patient.’

‘Young man—’

Again, the placatory gesture. ‘So how can I begin to persuade you all that you are mistaken? There is only one way: the truth.’

‘The truth’, Moncalieri intervened in booming tones, ‘is that you, monsieur, are not James Davenall. The truth—’

‘Is that you are Prince Napoleon Joseph Charles Paul Bonaparte, official Bonapartist pretender to the Imperial throne of France,’ said Norton with quiet conviction. ‘The truth is that I often visited you in Paris with my father, in palmier days for your good self. I am surprised to see you here, Prince, and curious as to the reason. It cannot simply
be
to assist poor Hugo. That strikes me as altogether too altruistic a gesture.’

Trenchard looked from one to the other of them with amazement. There was no doubt that Norton was right: the shock of it was imprinted on Moncalieri’s flushed and writhing countenance. He was no mere count at all, but a prince of the Bonaparte blood. Fiveash recognized him now, and was sure of it: there was even a Napoleonic cast to his features. He had met the man once at Cleave Court with Sir Gervase, many years before, when he had made no secret of his identity.

At last, the Prince spat out a response. ‘I do not have to account to you for the name I choose to use.’

‘Yet it would have been said later that I failed to recognize a former acquaintance by his proper name. I am sorry to have embarrassed you, but I thought it best to demonstrate that I will not be deflected by such tricks.’

‘Not bad,’ said Cleveland with jarring good cheer. ‘How’d you twig him, old man?’

‘My fame goes before me,’ the Prince put in, seeming to have recovered his composure. ‘Monsieur Norton’s recognition of me proves nothing.’

‘We last met in November 1870,’ said Norton coolly. ‘You dined at Bladeney House with your mistress. How is Cora these days?’

‘
Mon Dieu
, this is too much! I will not—’

‘Pretend any longer that I am not James Davenall?’

Prince Napoleon was angry. He might have been vaguely flattered to be recognized, but to be reminded of a discarded mistress was not at all what he had expected of this encounter. Hardly pausing to consider how Norton could have known the composition of a dinner-party twelve years before, he rose red-faced from the table. ‘The Devil take you, Monsieur Norton – or whoever you are. I did not come here to be insulted. This is all …
la tromperie
. The misfortune of a public life is that it should attract lies … and gossip.’ He advanced towards Norton, his features working malevolently, his towering frame hunched
slightly
at the shoulders, as if already wounded by the other man’s words. ‘You have proved nothing except that you cannot be James Davenall.’

Norton turned to look at the approaching figure. ‘Sensitive because you’ve left poor Cora to starve? I’m sure there’s no need to be. You have more to be sensitive about than a cast-off mistress. Far more, I’d have said.’

The Prince pulled up sharply. He was standing behind Richard Davenall now, one hand on his chair-back, as if in need of support. ‘What do you mean?’ he said slowly.

‘You were a friend of the family before I was born. You were introduced to Cleave Court by your cousin, Prince Louis Napoleon, during his exile in Bath; he had befriended my grandfather, Sir Lemuel. That is how you first met my father, during a visit to your cousin in Bath in the autumn of 1846. I believe you were travelling then under the name Count of Montfort.’

‘How did you—?’

‘My father told me. How else should I know? Scrupulous research, perhaps? Even though I had no inkling that you would be here today? It is just possible, I suppose. Perhaps you would care for something a little more definitive.’

Prince Napoleon stooped over Norton, so that their faces were but inches apart. ‘I care for nothing about you, monsieur –
rien
!’

‘Had you known all that my father told me about Your Imperial Highness, I doubt you would have dared confront me. So cast your mind back. Thirty-six years ago. A long time, I grant you, but what is time to a prince? Sir Harley’s Maze at Cleave Court: the twentieth of September 1846.’

A roar escaped from Prince Napoleon. He jerked himself upright, ran one hand round his quivering throat and looked down at Norton. ‘Who
are
you?’

Norton ignored the question. ‘My mother has abandoned the maze. Did they tell you? I expect you can guess why. She would not care for any reminders of that date. Shall I explain its significance to everyone else?’

Prince Napoleon glared across the table at Sir Hugo. ‘I
blame
you for this!’ His voice was rising to a raging pitch. ‘Your mother should have warned me!’

‘Calm yourself, Prince,’ said Norton. ‘My mother wasn’t to know the extent to which my father confided in me.’

But there was no calming the Prince. With an oath, he turned on his heel and swept to the door. There he paused long enough to glower back at his tormentor. ‘I will not tolerate this inquisition. Much good may you all have of it. Involve me no more.’ Then he flung the door open and was gone.

V

During the interval that followed, Sir Hugo stared incredulously and for the first time at Norton, as if trying to read in those refined and reticent features the secret of his knowledge. Shock had silenced the rest of the party also; only the scratching of Lechlade’s pen and the rattling of the door – left ajar by Prince Napoleon’s attempt to slam it – sounded in the room above the insidious plash and patter of the rain. Nothing moved, save half a dozen sets of thoughts in vain pursuit of deductions that had already outpaced them.