Painting The Darkness - Retail

by Robert Goddard

‘What makes you say so? Is he too tall, too thin, too muscular? Is there some conspicuous mole or birthmark in which he is lacking?’

  ‘I keep no precise record of my patients’ physical dimensions. He is about the same height, though somewhat more strongly built.’

  ‘Could a change in his way of life account for that?’

  ‘It could. As for distinguishing marks, I have no record or recollection of ones which might be significant for these purposes.’

  ‘So on what do you base your conclusion?’

  ‘I base it on the methods which I apply when recognizing myself in the mirror of a morning. I do not recognize this man.’

  ‘These methods scarcely seem medical.’

  ‘There were also medical considerations which confirmed my opinion.’

  ‘What were they?’

  ‘Considerations which are confidential between a doctor and his patient.’

  ‘You allege your patient to be dead, Doctor. Does not confidentiality end there? Surely the Hippocratic Oath does not extend beyond the grave.’

  ‘It may, in certain circumstances.’

  Warburton turned to Richard Davenall. ‘This is special pleading on an outrageous scale. Do you really think it will suffice?’

  ‘I believe it will serve.’

  ‘I fear not.’ Norton had signalled once more to his solicitor that he would speak. ‘I am grateful to Dr Fiveash for his misplaced loyalty, but his misapprehension cannot be allowed to continue. I must put before you squarely what may be as painful to him as it is to me. When he examined me last month, he looked for signs of an illness which he had originally diagnosed in 1871. He based his conclusion on the absence of any such signs.’

  Fiveash was plainly astounded; Trenchard could read in his face less anger but more bafflement than he had in Prince Napoleon’s. ‘How did you—?’ the doctor began.

  ‘I fled eleven years ago because of that diagnosis. I have returned because I have learned that it was false. You were mistaken, Doctor, simply mistaken.’

  Now Fiveash’s professional pride had been hurt: anger welled in him. ‘How dare you? This is … this is insult piled upon guesswork.’

  ‘No, Doctor. It is the simple truth. I came to you in April 1871 suffering from what I believed to be an optical disorder. You eventually diagnosed … syphilis.’

  The attention he commanded was absolute. Lechlade had stopped writing. Even Cleveland sat hunched forward in his chair, cigarette abandoned, eyes fixed upon him. Trenchard was motionless, beating back from his ears the ghastly ring of truth. If James Davenall had been told he had syphilis, if James Davenall were an honourable man, what could he do a few weeks short of his wedding to an innocent woman? What could he do but … ?

  ‘I do not blame or condemn you: I believe the symptoms of syphilis are notoriously fickle, in my case demonstrably so. I even sought a second opinion from a Harley Street specialist. The verdict was the same, mistaken but the same. Clearly, I could not proceed with my marriage to Miss Sumner, but how could I explain why? I confess that I fled rather than admit to her the truth, rather than live some other fatuous lie. When I left the note at Cleave Court, suicide was in my mind, as it was when I reached London that night. But I had not the courage for it. The seventeenth of June 1871 was not, as you see, the day of my death, though sometimes I might almost agree that it should have been. I left the country in a steamer bound for Halifax, Nova Scotia, travelling under an assumed name. Not Norton, not then, for I have known several names. I wished only to erase myself from the world I had known. It was the one way to tolerate the shame I felt. And I succeeded – as you see.’

  It fluttered then, in more heads than one, the thought that was either honour or folly: This man is in earnest – he is James Davenall. Trenchard struggled to face the realization of his worst fears and saw only something worse still: if he was to fight this man beyond this point, as he must if he was to keep Constance, he would be alone and, in all probability, in the wrong. It was not his wish, it was not his duty, yet he would do it. To prove his love was stronger than he sometimes sensed, he would fight this man to the end. He looked at Norton and steeled himself to the thought: This man I could have known as a friend is henceforth my enemy. He shuddered.

  Fiveash’s reaction had evidently been running along different lines. Old, set and complacently avuncular, he stood now condemned and confounded. He was not ready, it was not time, this was not the place. All the diligent, decent, seemly bedside manner of an entire career curdled in mockery of his fallibility. He cursed silently. There had been so much to mislead him. All that had gone before had unconsciously prepared him for James Davenall’s illness. It had seemed almost just, almost appropriate. Could he have been so catastrophically wrong? He raged against the thought.

  ‘No! It isn’t possible. There was no room for doubt. James Davenall was incurably ill. I sent you to Emery, and he confirmed it.’

  ‘You sent me. Yes, that’s right. You did and now you’ve said it. You know it was me.’

  ‘A slip. A slip of the tongue. I didn’t mean … didn’t mean … you.’

  ‘You told me I was incurable, and I believed you. I crept away to die. But I didn’t die. The symptoms slowly vanished. I thought they would return. But they didn’t. I consulted an American doctor. He told me I was fully fit. There was no sign of syphilis. I consulted the eminent French venereologist, Fabius, in Paris. He said the same. You were mistaken, Doctor. You were all mistaken.’

  Again, a hush fell. Then Trenchard spoke at last. ‘One moment. Am I to take it that you are willing to admit in court that you believed you were suffering from syphilis?’

  Norton’s gaze was unflinching. ‘If necessary, yes.’

  ‘Then, you would also admit that, whether the diagnosis was correct or not, you had good reason at the time to believe that it might be correct.’

  Norton’s only reply was a smile.

  Sir Hugo turned on Trenchard. ‘What the devil are you doing, man? You’re playing his game, assuming this isn’t all a pack of lies.’

  ‘Trenchard is looking to his own,’ said Norton. ‘He cannot be blamed for that. A man does not believe he has syphilis unless he knows he has been exposed to infection. Trenchard’s point is that I must have been unfaithful to Constance during our engagement if that is the case.’

  ‘What’s that to me?’ snapped Sir Hugo.

  ‘Nothing, dear brother. It is nothing to you, but everything to Trenchard. Alas for him, it is also based upon a misconception. I had good cause to fear I had been infected with syphilis, but it involved no infidelity to Constance.’

  ‘Then, how do you account for it?’ said Trenchard.

  ‘Dr Fiveash satisfied me on the point eleven years ago, and I will leave him to satisfy you in the same way now.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Fiveash slowly.

  ‘Yes, Doctor?’

  ‘It is not possible. Say what you like, practise what tricks you may, you cannot know what passed between us unless you are James Davenall. And I will never believe – never admit – that you are.’

  ‘Because it would compromise your professional reputation?’

  ‘Damnation, no. I will not admit it because it is not true.’

  ‘You do not want to admit it because you do not want it to be true.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will you tell them what you told me then – or must I?’

  ‘I will say nothing.’

  Another pause, another wordless gulf. Then, suddenly and noiselessly, Norton rose from the table: ‘Then I will say nothing, either.’

  A desperate whoop from Sir Hugo. ‘Because you don’t know! Fiveash has called your bluff.’

  If the man Norton looked down at was his brother, it was clear from his expression that there was precious little fraternal pity to lessen his contempt. ‘No, Hugo, I refrain for the moment, but that is all. I will speak if I must, but, if I do, you will regret it. That is all I will say for the present.’ A courteous bow
to the gathering. ‘Mr Warburton will explain my position. I hope to hear from you soon – for all our sakes. Now I will bid you good morning.’ He walked slowly past them to the door and went out quietly. There was dignity and reserve in his retreat, just enough said and enough withheld to suggest the decency of one who would insist on his rights but never grasp at another’s. The door clicked shut behind him and, as it did so, the Staple Inn clock began to strike. It was noon, only an hour since they had first assembled, yet far longer to judge by the lines that hour had scratched in their lives. Warburton looked from one to the other of them and waited for the clock to finish striking.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said at last, ‘I trust the strength of our case is now clear to you. My client has instructed me to give you one further opportunity to consider your position. If we have not heard from you by this time two days hence – noon on Friday the thirteenth – we shall seek a hearing in Chancery at the earliest possible date of our application for the removal of the impediments being placed before Sir James Davenall in the assumption of his property and title. I doubt there is any more to be said at this stage.’

  ‘There’s everything to be said,’ cried Sir Hugo. ‘I’ve questions he won’t be able to—’

  ‘Hugo!’ Richard Davenall interrupted, more sharply than before. ‘Mr Warburton is right.’ He glanced at the other man. ‘I will see that word reaches you by the due time.’

  ‘I’m obliged.’

  ‘Now I think we should withdraw. Baverstock?’

  The rural lawyer started in his chair. Dumbstruck throughout, he now found his voice with difficulty. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Absolutely.’

  ‘One last point,’ said Warburton. ‘Lest you should pin any hopes on Sir Hugo’s belief that my client is ignorant of what he currently declines to state openly, I should tell you that we have obtained a copy of Sir Gervase Davenall’s death certificate. The implications of its contents will be used in court if there appears to be no alternative.’

  Richard Davenall looked towards Fiveash. ‘Is the import of this clear to you, Doctor?’

  The reply was a husky whisper. ‘Yes.’

  VI

  Sir Hugo Davenall sat like a man stunned in the corner of his cousin’s office off High Holborn. His earlier anxiety had departed and had been replaced by a sullen lethargy: he had not even removed the sodden overcoat in which he had walked from Staple Inn. He stared straight ahead, breathing heavily, lower lip protruding, his chin cradled in his left hand whilst, with his right, he traced and retraced the embroidered relief of the pattern on the arm of his chair.

  Cleveland stood by the window, clutching a glass of Scotch to his chest and smoking languidly, staring vacantly out at the street. Beside him, Trenchard was propped against the sill, back turned to the passing trams, apparently lost in thought. To one side of the window, behind a broad and disordered desk, Richard Davenall was immersed in whispered conference with Baverstock; both wore worried frowns. By the door, Dr Fiveash was pacing to and fro, sometimes pausing by the ceiling-high bookcase to squint at the spine of a legal tome – though never taking it down to read; sometimes pulling out his pocket-watch to check the time – though never commenting on its significance beyond a heavy sigh as he returned the watch to his waistcoat.

  Only Trenchard looked up when the door opened and a clerk entered. He walked straight over to Richard Davenall’s desk and craned across it.

  ‘Yes, Benson?’

  ‘A messenger from Claridge’s Hotel delivered this note for you a few moments ago, sir. The sender’s name is Moncalieri.’

  Davenall had opened and read the note before the door had even closed behind its bearer, but a click of the tongue was his only immediate reaction.

  ‘What does Bonny Prince Napoleon have to say for himself?’ asked Cleveland.

  Davenall smiled grimly. ‘He is more than somewhat displeased. It seems he is to return to France … immediately.’

  ‘Deserting the sinking ship?’

  ‘He may see it that way. Certainly he has no taste for further encounters with Mr Norton. He found their discussion … disagreeable. Perhaps it is just as well. I fear Warburton would make considerable capital out of remarks like this: “Monsieur Norton’s reference to a specific date in 1846 is pure moonshine. It has no significance. Moreover, it is inconceivable that Sir Gervase should have told him of such things.”’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Precisely. If the date is insignificant, there is nothing to tell. Yet he implies there is. No wonder the Bonapartist cause has not prospered under his leadership.’ Davenall slowly tore the note in four and dropped the pieces into a wastepaper-basket. ‘So much for our noble ally.’

  ‘I’ve thought very carefully about everything that Norton said,’ Trenchard interjected.

  ‘I’m sure we all have,’ Davenall snapped. Then: ‘I do beg your pardon, Trenchard. Nerves a touch frayed. What do you conclude from his remarks?’

  ‘That he spoke the truth. Something happened, involving Prince Napoleon and Sir Gervase, at Cleave Court in September 1846. Something discreditable, perhaps even disgraceful. And Norton knows about it. Who else would know?’

  ‘Only Catherine. I have agreed with Baverstock’ – a nod to his colleague – ‘that he should broach the subject with her. But she may be unable to help us.’

  ‘Surely she can – if Norton is right about her reasons for abandoning the maze.’

  ‘I agree. Yet she may still deny all knowledge. Having met her, Trenchard, I’m sure you can imagine that.’ A meaningful glance.

  ‘Yes. I can.’

  ‘Besides, what could it be? And does it really matter now that Prince Napoleon has withdrawn from the case? It cannot prove or disprove Norton’s claim. James wasn’t even born in 1846.’

  ‘When was he born?’

  ‘February 1848. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know, really. It’s just …’

  ‘You said you felt that everything Norton said was true. Does that extend to his claim to be James? We may as well know where we all stand.’

  ‘It could be, you know,’ Cleveland put in. ‘I know it’s tough on you fellows, but I find the chap awfully convincin’.’

  ‘But you, Trenchard,’ said Davenall. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know your family well enough to say. I never met James. Was he … close to his father?’

  ‘No. That’s the strangest part of all this. Sir Gervase was the coolest, least forthcoming, least fatherly of men. I always felt he wouldn’t have given James the time of day. But, then, how well can I claim to have known him? I was his solicitor first, his cousin … hardly ever. Dr Fiveash’ – he turned towards the pacing figure by the door – ‘have you yet resolved your crisis of medical conscience?’

  Fiveash glared across at them. ‘It is not to be taken lightly.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that it was. At least you can clear up this business of the death certificate. I understood Sir Gervase to have died of the continuing effects of a stroke.’ He looked back at Trenchard. ‘Sir Gervase suffered a stroke … oh, three years ago. He spent the last eighteen months of his life in a nursing home in a perfectly helpless condition. Ironically, the stroke seemed to be brought on by a series of disagreements – and open arguments – stemming from his refusal to have James pronounced dead.’ His gaze returned to Fiveash. ‘Would you care to comment, Doctor?’

  Fiveash pulled himself up with a great sigh. ‘The certificate will show the cause of death as general paralysis of the insane.’

  ‘Insane?’

  ‘A mere form of words. The symptoms are not inconsistent with a stroke and, indeed, he did suffer a mild stroke.’

  ‘Mild? I was told at the time that it was severe.’

  ‘The illness was severe, the deterioration rapid, but the symptoms were of long standing. The point Norton was making is, however, a simple one. General paralysis of the insane is a common manifestation of tertiary syphilis.
Put plainly, Sir Gervase died of syphilis.’ He slumped down in a chair.

  Richard Davenall glanced across at his cousin. ‘Did you know of this, Hugo?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Sir Hugo stirred from his lethargy. ‘Yes. The old boy had the pox. Did you expect me to announce it in The Times?’

  ‘You might have told me.’

  ‘I didn’t consider it any of your business.’

  ‘It is now. Does your mother know?’

  ‘Not from me. And I don’t think she guessed. She never visited him, not once. I trooped out there often enough, God knows, and he’d look at me, disappointment written on his face. It wasn’t me he wanted to see. Sometimes, I didn’t even think it was Mother.’

  ‘But James?’

  ‘Yes. My precious vanished brother James.’ He suddenly grasped the tasselled fringe on the arm of his chair, twisting and grinding it in his hand. ‘That man isn’t James. He can’t be. He’s too … too damned impressive.’

  ‘And he is not syphilitic,’ Fiveash added mournfully.

  Richard Davenall leaned across his desk, staring at the doctor intently. ‘Will you now state plainly what you declined to disclose earlier?’

  ‘Very well. James consulted me in April 1871 – just as Norton said. He complained of deteriorating vision, combined with watering of the eyes, spasm of the lids and sensitivity to the light. These symptoms were not then well developed, but they were clearly indicative of interstitial keratitis, the commonest cause of which is congenital syphilis.’

  ‘Congenital?’

  ‘He means, cousin,’ said Sir Hugo, ‘that James inherited the disease.’

  ‘Good God. You knew this?’

  It was Fiveash who replied. ‘When I disclosed the true nature of his father’s illness to Sir Hugo, I felt obliged to inform him of the slight risk to which he had been exposed. It was something which had always concerned me. Sir Gervase contracted syphilis more than thirty years ago. I hoped at the time that he had not infected Lady Davenall and hence James, but there was no guarantee of it. Lady Davenall has never displayed any signs of the disease. Unfortunately, it is possible for some carriers of syphilis to exhibit no symptoms but still pass it on to their offspring. When James asked me to examine him, my worst fears were confirmed. In Sir Hugo’s case, the risk was substantially reduced. By the time he was born, the progress of the disease would, in all likelihood, have gone beyond the infectious stage.’