Painting The Darkness - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Don’t try to fob me off. What can you tell me about Quinn?’

  ‘Nothing you haven’t already found out. He was Gervase’s batman in the Crimea, later his valet, later still James’s valet. Baverstock knows more about the circum stances of his dismissal than I do.’

  ‘Any idea where he is now?’

  ‘None. But, then, I don’t make it my business—’

  ‘Any idea where he came from originally?’

  The Army. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Did he speak with any kind of accent?’

  ‘Not that I can remember. This is—’

  ‘The surname’s Irish. Was he Irish, do you think?’

  ‘No. That is—’

  ‘Your family owns land in Ireland, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. But what has—?’

  ‘Wait!’ Trenchard clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘You told me that Sir Gervase’s mother had died only recently. Murdered in the course of a burglary – at her home in Ireland.’

  ‘That’s true. But—’

  ‘How much did the burglars get away with?’

  ‘I really don’t see—’

  ‘Don’t you? Then, you should. Quinn would have known the value of Lady Davenall’s property, whether she stored cash and jewellery on the premises, how and when to get into the home.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘That he might have been the burglar – seeking funds for this conspiracy.’

  ‘That’s outrageous.’

  ‘Maybe – but it makes more and more sense.’

  Richard rose from his chair and grasped Trenchard by the shoulders. ‘Listen to me!’ he said sharply. ‘Listen to me before you go too far. You’re tired and overwrought. You’re upset about Constance. All that’s understandable. But piling together hopeless allegations against Quinn won’t help.’

  Trenchard looked at him blankly. ‘Is that it, then? You won’t help?’

  ‘Of course I’ll help. We must obviously try to find Quinn. After all, he was James’s valet and is therefore a vital witness. If he is behind this, we’ll find out. Frankly, I doubt he has the intelligence – or the organizing ability – to have done the things you suspect.’

  Trenchard stepped free of Richard’s grasp and moved to the window, where rain still spat on the blackened glass. ‘I suppose that will have to do,’ he murmured.

  ‘For the moment, I’m afraid it will.’

  ‘What did you want to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing that supports your theory, I’m afraid. It concerns the information which Norton used to alarm Prince Napoleon.’

  As he related what Baverstock had discovered concerning Vivien Strang and Prince Napoleon’s presence at Cleave Court in September 1846, Richard felt his faith in its significance subsiding. Was it, after all, not an even flimsier amalgam of connected coincidences than Trenchard’s own suspicions? Another dismissed servant – another treacherous strand of dates and events that led nowhere. Where, in all of this, was their salvation?

  ‘I propose to visit Catherine tomorrow,’ he concluded, ‘and press her to say what she knows about Miss Strang. It won’t be easy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because of … long-standing differences between us.’

  ‘Another family feud?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘But another secret that’s to be kept from me?’

  ‘I can’t repair the damage my family may have done your marriage, Trenchard, but I can seek to limit it. That’s why I’m visiting Catherine tomorrow – despite everything. You have my word that the cause of my reluctance is wholly unconnected with our present difficulties.’

  ‘Will you ask her about Quinn?’

  ‘I’ll certainly mention him. But I can’t guarantee she’ll be any more forthcoming where he’s concerned than she has been so far about Miss Strang.’

  ‘Why should she keep anything back?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what I hope to find out. Be assured, I’ll let you know the outcome.’

  ‘What will you do about Quinn?’

  ‘I’ll institute enquiries. That’s all I can do.’

  With sudden decisiveness, Trenchard plucked his coat from the back of a chair and shrugged it on to his shoulders. ‘Very well. I’ll await your word. Will you be back within the day?’

  ‘By Monday at the latest.’

  ‘I’ll do nothing until then. After that—’

  ‘Trenchard!’ Richard looked intently at him. ‘Clearly the offer of money to Norton was a mistake. Commissioning you to make the offer compounded that mistake. I’m truly sorry for all the consequences of our misjudgement. But don’t make them worse than they already are.’

  ‘How could I?’

  ‘Until this case comes to court, we have a chance to put everything right. Until then, I implore you to trust me. Do nothing without consulting me.’

  But there was suspicion now in Trenchard’s look: trust was no longer possible. ‘I’ll do nothing until I hear from you again. After that … I don’t know.’

  Nor did Richard know. He had himself scarcely looked beyond his dreaded encounter with Catherine and all the half-formed doubts that would hover like ghosts about their meeting. When he saw Trenchard off into the wet engulfing night and bolted the door behind him, his mind drew him irresistibly towards the mocking record that time had made of his life. As he retraced his steps along the hall, the light from his lamp flickering and leaping amongst the remembered shapes and furnishings of his father’s house, he felt the invisible line tighten and draw him in once more.

  ‘It’s settled, then,’ said Gervase. ‘Meet me at the club, Tuesday at six.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to,’ said Richard as they emerged into Swain’s Lane. The cabs and carriages of the other mourners were already departing, moving at a slightly less solemn pace than when they had arrived. The undertaker was waiting on the other side of the road to transport Richard home, while Gervase’s phaeton was drawn up by the cemetery chapel. ‘Would you care to step back to the house?’

  ‘Can’t tarry, I’m afraid. Have to get Jamie home to pack. Term starts at Eton tomorrow. He’s looking forward to it – aren’t you, son?’

  James looked up bleakly. ‘Yes, Papa.’

  ‘Now, say goodbye to your cousin Richard.’

  James held up his small gloved hand. As Richard reached down to clasp it, the boy’s eyes engaged his own. Before he could prevent himself, Richard gasped. Those eyes – young, intent and staring – that had once seen … He snatched back his hand and pressed it to his brow, as if to shield himself from the sudden rush of guilt.

  ‘Something wrong, old man?’ said Gervase.

  Richard recovered himself. ‘It … it’s nothing. I’m sorry. I felt … unsteady for a moment.’

  ‘Strain of the occasion, I expect. Here, do take a sip of this.’ He held out the hip-flask.

  This time, Richard accepted it and gulped down some of the contents, glad of the burning sensation in his throat with which to lance away the question: Did he remember? When he returned the flask, James was still staring at him, but Richard looked elsewhere.

  Gervase touched him on the elbow. ‘Well, must be off. Don’t forget our appointment.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Come on, Jamie.’

  Richard watched them walk the few yards to the phaeton, where the driver was waiting to help them aboard. James looked back once, in what was little more than a glance, and Richard forced himself to smile, but still he did not let their eyes meet.

  ‘Home, Quinn,’ said Gervase.

  Ignored then, a grey-faced factotum in Inverness cape and dark top-hat, Quinn had eased the horses out into the road, nodded once to Richard and driven the phaeton away. Twenty-one years later, by the light of a dying fire, alone in his Highgate study, Richard could not deny that it was odd Gervase should have preferred Quinn to one of his grooms as driver that day. He had always, he conceded, seemed more a familiar tha
n a servant. What had they known of him, when all was said and done? What trust might Quinn have forged with his master which Catherine was later to break? Could Trenchard be right for all the wrong reasons?

  Chapter Seven

  I

  IT WAS A bleak and windswept Sunday in Salisbury. Though candlelight could be glimpsed through the cathedral windows and choristers’ voices heard, in snatches, on the gusting air, the close beyond its towering walls was empty and silent, save for swirling leaves and the wind’s mewling in its ancient eaves.

  Not so ten minutes since, when a clutch of gale-blown clerics in billowing cassocks had converged on its north door, one of them a stout, elderly, white-haired figure who had beaten a path across the green from an unassuming red-brick house in one of the remoter corners of the close.

  Canon Sumner was an amiably ineffectual priest, who generally bore the most contented of smiles. Yet today his expression, his very appearance, was crumpled and forlorn. He was, self-evidently, a troubled man.

  The cause of Canon Sumner’s distress, his daughter Constance, sat now to one side of a blazing fire in the cosy if cluttered drawing-room he had just vacated, engaged, though scarcely absorbed, in a game of solitaire. Indeed, though she held one of the marbles in her hand, it had been there for several minutes, whilst her attention had shifted to an oil painting above her on the chimney-breast, a portrait of her mother, ball-gowned and elegant, in the days of her betrothal to a humble chaplain named Sumner.

  Constance started in her chair at the sound of the door opening and twisted round. It was her sister Emily, her elder by five years, a confirmed spinster, tireless performer of good works in diocesan circles and, since their mother’s death, mistress of the house. Constance had always envied Emily her clarity of thought and placidity of temperament. Emily had always envied Constance her radiant looks and enchanting daughter. The two sisters exchanged warm ungrudging smiles.

  ‘Did I make you jump?’ said Emily.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Constance replied. ‘These days, I jump at shadows. I thought you were with Patience.’

  ‘I left her with Nanny, whose concepts of child-rearing do not encompass a doting aunt.’ Emily gave her sister’s hand a squeeze before taking the fireside chair opposite her. ‘Besides, I saw Father leaving and thought the time ripe to speak to you alone.’

  ‘I do not know what I can add to all that I said last night.’

  ‘Father would wish you to add a change of heart. Did you not see how he looked at matins?’

  ‘How could I not? You surely don’t suppose it gives me any satisfaction to cause him pain?’

  ‘Of course not. I am your staunchest ally in all things. You know that.’

  ‘Bless you, Emily. What would you have me do?’

  ‘I would have you be certain. Can you be?’

  ‘I am certain that James has returned to me. If I were not, I would not be so torn.’

  ‘You married William in good faith.’

  ‘I married William in the belief that James was dead. Only that belief sustained our marriage.’

  ‘Father would say that holy matrimony takes precedence over any emotion, however profound. I would say the same – if anyone other than you asked me.’

  ‘And when I ask, Emily? What do you say when I ask?’

  ‘I say that William has been a good husband to you. You do not claim otherwise.’

  ‘I only claim that, in my heart, I was a widow when I married William, a widow who now finds that her true husband lives.’

  ‘You know full well that neither the Church nor the Law will acknowledge such a claim.’

  ‘If I am forced to choose between them, I must needs choose solitude.’

  ‘That is a hard choice.’

  ‘All I ask is time to think, time to face myself, time to see the choice for what it is.’

  ‘That you may always have here. This is your home, whatever happens. But tell me: can you honestly maintain that James was justified, first in deserting you, then in reappearing when he knew what distress he would cause you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. That most of all. He has told me the whole truth, you see. I wish I could share it with you, but I cannot yet presume to speak for him. All I can say is that he acted out of love for me. Now I must act out of love for him. When all deny him, I must stand by him.’

  ‘You realize that, if the circumstances of your presence here become known in the close, Father will be severely embarrassed? The Dean may even consider it a disciplinary matter.’

  ‘I will leave before that happens.’

  ‘Then, we must ensure it doesn’t. Have you written to William? It would be as well if he did not follow you here.’

  ‘I have the letter here.’ She slid the envelope from its resting-place beneath the solitaire board.

  ‘Would you like me to post it for you? The servants might think it odd that you should write so soon after your arrival. They are diligent in everything, but discreet in nothing.’

  ‘Thank you, Emily. Perhaps that would be wise.’ She handed her the letter.

  ‘I’ll go now. You’d best not come with me. I’ll be back in a trice – and Father none the wiser.’ Casting a brief glance through the window at the familiar shape of the cathedral, as if to be certain that Canon Sumner’s devotions were still in progress, Emily bustled out, happier as ever to be doing than debating.

  Left once more by the fireside where she had played as a child, Constance looked again at her mother’s portrait and wondered what she would have said of her daughter’s actions. Perhaps it was as well that she was not there to witness them.

  Constance sighed. Solitude was, as Emily had said, a hard choice. Was she strong enough to make it? William had betrayed her trust: that much was clear. But James? What did he deserve of her? Could she resist his claim? If he came to her, what would she say?

  She thought again, as she often did, of their last meeting at the aqueduct in June 1871, of all it had meant beyond what she had known at the time. She remembered sitting in the music room at Cleave Court that morning, remembered Quinn bringing in James’s letter for her on a silver tray, remembered reading it and rushing from the room, eager beyond the reach of urgency to see James again and persuade herself that all was well. She could still feel the force of that longing, could still discern the depth of that day’s pledged and proven love.

  II

  Richard Davenall had not visited Cleave Court since Sir Gervase’s funeral. That, like all his other visits save one, had been brief and dutiful. It was strange, he reflected, as the carriage moved serenely up the avenue of elms, that he had always presented himself there as a deferential, vaguely apologetic adviser, a man of business, a professional necessity in the life of its family, never as the family member that he truly was.

  He smiled to himself. The reason for his enduring humility was not far to seek. There, about him in the park, where the grass was patched with the red and golden spillages of autumn leaves, where all was seasonal preordained decay beneath a grey abiding sky, was every tinge and vestige of his fate, the fate of one who had risked too little and lost too much.

  The carriage drew to a halt. Richard climbed out and looked about him. This, he knew, if anywhere could be, was home for the Davenalls, the place they had made, the land they had stamped with their name. Why, then, did he always feel an intruder here – an interloper, one who was not and never would be quite accepted? He shook his head and entered the house.

  There had been no answer to his telegram save the carriage waiting for him at the station, nor now was there a clutch of welcoming relatives in the hall; merely Gibbs, the butler, erasing from his expression, as best he could, all hint of embarrassment.

  ‘Trust I’m expected, Gibbs?’ Richard said.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘Where’s Lady Davenall?’

  ‘Presently strolling in the grounds, I believe, sir.’

  Richard might have known. He had specified a time, and this was the use
Catherine had made of it. ‘Then, I’ll wait for her to return.’

  ‘Sir Hugo would be grateful if you joined him meanwhile, sir.’

  Richard drew up sharply. ‘Hugo? He’s here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Since yesterday. Presently in the smoking-room.’

  Richard made his way straight there. Already, he felt foreboding closing in on him. He had come to discuss Hugo with Catherine, but Hugo had forestalled him.

  The smoking-room was not as he recalled it. Formerly a retreat for Gervase and his more tenacious drinking companions, it was now sparsely and comfortlessly furnished. In the centre of the room, a large wooden chest had been set down with its lid propped open. Seated before it on a low stool was Sir Hugo Davenall.

  ‘Hello, Richard,’ said Hugo, without looking up.

  ‘I didn’t know you were visiting your mother.’

  ‘I’m not. You might say I’m here on business.’

  ‘May I ask what business?’

  ‘I’m doing what you should already have done, dear cousin.’ Now he did look up, grinning sarcastically. ‘This chest holds what remains of my late lamented brother. Oddments of clothing, school-books, tie-pins, cuff-links: you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘I didn’t realize so much had been kept.’

  ‘It doesn’t amount to a lot. A cricket cap’ – he held it up – ‘his college gown’ – he plucked out a bundle of black cloth.

  ‘Then, why—?’

  ‘Because we can use this to challenge Norton. Ask him to identify his old possessions. See if, literally, the cap fits.’

  ‘It could be useful, Hugo. I’m glad you’ve—’

  ‘I’ve also been speaking to the tenants.’ He rose, brushed the dust off his hands and smiled once more. ‘Ensuring they understand the importance of being positive in their evidence that Norton is an impostor.’

  ‘You’ve obviously been busy.’

  ‘I’ve had to be, in view of your indifference as to whether this man succeeds in stealing my title.’

  ‘Hugo—’

  Suddenly, the young man was close to Richard, staring intently into his face. ‘If needs be, I’ll stand alone against Norton. I’ll make him wish he hadn’t started this game.’