Painting The Darkness - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  At length, Sir Hardinge Giffard commenced his cross-examination, and the tone of the proceedings altered. There was something blunt and uncompromising about his questions. Russell’s dexterity was all very well, they implied, but it was time to come to the heart of the matter.

  ‘How long was the late James Davenall your patient, Doctor?’

  ‘From birth.’

  ‘You were well acquainted with him, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Better acquainted than had you known him merely on a social footing?’

  ‘Of course. The relationship between a doctor and his patient is necessarily intimate.’

  ‘You would expect to recognize him without difficulty?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘When you look at the plaintiff, do you recognize him as the late James Davenall?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When he visited your surgery on the twenty-sixth of September this year, did you have an opportunity to examine him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did that examination lead you to believe that he was the late James Davenall?’

  ‘No, it did not’

  ‘In short, then, Doctor, what is your professional opinion as to the likelihood that the plaintiff is your former patient of more than twenty years’ standing?’

  ‘My professional opinion, and my personal belief, is that he is not.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  Richard winced at the clinical efficiency with which Giffard had gone about his business. He had inflicted another wound where there were already too many for comfort. Strive as he might by supplementary questioning to emphasize that only James Davenall could know as much as Norton knew, Russell was helpless to repair the damage done, and a strangled note in his voice seemed to confirm that he knew as much. Richard began to feel sorry for him and sorrier still for himself.

  Not that he believed Russell would be found wanting where stamina was concerned: the top barristers seldom were. Sure enough, the next witness brought out the best in him. Miss Esme Pursglove, combining vigour and frailty in her finest tea-time style, inspired in Russell an avuncular fluency that progressively restored his confidence. She, after all, had known James Davenall quite as long as Dr Fiveash and, in her opinion, a good deal better. She was prepared to support Norton’s claim just as dogmatically as Fiveash was prepared to deny it. She, in short, was in no doubt. Until, that is, Sir Hardinge Giffard began to cross-examine her.

  ‘How old are you, Miss Pursglove?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ She had not heard him. It was understandable, considering how softly he had spoken, but Richard recognized the success of a simple ploy.

  ‘I’m sorry. Are you a little hard of hearing?’

  This time Miss Pursglove did hear the question. Her reply was indignant. ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘It would be perfectly understandable in a lady of your age. What did you say that age was?’

  ‘Eighty-one next birthday.’

  ‘Quite. Permit me to congratulate you on how lightly you wear your years. Of course, a deterioration in some faculties is inevitable, would you not agree?’

  Miss Pursglove evidently did not agree. ‘I … I don’t rightly know what you mean.’

  ‘Let us turn to something else, then. The plaintiff visited you at your home during the afternoon of the twenty-sixth of September. Do you happen to remember what day of the week that was?’

  The reply came back tartly. ‘Tuesday.’ A point to Miss Pursglove.

  ‘And you recognized him as your former charge, the late James Davenall?’

  ‘He’s my Jamie.’ There was a bird-like nod of the head to stress the point.

  ‘What enabled you to recognize him? Was it the sound of his voice? Or have you come to rely more on sight than on hearing?’

  ‘I know my Jamie.’ She was not to be moved.

  ‘Let us agree on a combination of the two, then.’

  ‘H’mm. Well … if you say so.’

  ‘Incidentally, Miss Pursglove, what time is it?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What time is it? I should be most obliged if you would tell me the time shown on the courtroom clock.’

  Miss Pursglove glanced around desperately.

  ‘It’s on the wall above the door by which you came in.’ Suddenly, Russell was on his feet. ‘My Lord, I protest! What possible relevance—?’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Mr Justice Wimberley. ‘What is the relevance of this question, Sir Hardinge?’

  ‘The relevance, my Lord, resides in the poverty of the witness’s eyesight and the doubt it casts on her powers of recognition.’ Giffard beamed. ‘Naturally, I do not wish to press the point.’

  Nor did he need to. He had closed with a flourish, leaving Russell to flounder in his wake. When Miss Pursglove eventually left the box, Richard knew, as most in the court did not, that she was Norton’s last witness. Her final aggrieved squint towards the clock was, to him, unbearably symbolic. Time had run out for the plaintiff – and for him.

  Mr Justice Wimberley chose that moment to adjourn for luncheon. As soon as he had vacated the bench, there welled behind Richard a chair-scraping, coat-gathering murmur of collective departure. But Richard did not move. Giffard jogged his elbow and asked if he would join him outside: he shook his head. He could hear Hugo’s braying voice somewhere behind him and felt a flood of relief as it dwindled into the distance. The last of the clerks were gathering their papers now, the swing-doors slamming behind the final stragglers. Richard flattened his hands on the table before him and pushed himself upright. The decision, he knew, could no longer be deferred. He turned to go.

  A woman was standing halfway down the aisle between the rows of seats, staring at him with such a wan, pinched intensity as to suggest that necessity, not curiosity, had brought her to Lincoln’s Inn. Yet Richard did not recognize her. If she did have an interest in the case, he could not say what it might be.

  ‘Can I help you, madam?’ he ventured.

  ‘You are Mr Richard Davenall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am Emily Sumner.’

  ‘Sumner?’

  ‘Yes, Constance’s sister.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Sumner.’ They shook hands awkwardly. ‘What brings you—?’

  ‘He’s going to lose, isn’t he?’

  ‘I really don’t—’

  ‘James is going to lose this hearing, if nobody else speaks up for him.’

  Her very solemnity seemed to rule out prevarication. ‘I believe he is, yes.’

  ‘That must please you.’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can explain.’

  ‘It’s because you know he’s James, isn’t it? Constance has confided in me completely, Mr Davenall. I am here to represent her interests. She has told me that you, of all James’s family, may be the one to see reason.’

  Her frankness shocked him. Was he so transparent? ‘My position … is a delicate one.’

  ‘So delicate that you will let him lose?’

  ‘I am Sir Hugo Davenall’s solicitor, Miss Sumner. You must appreciate—’

  ‘Will you speak up for him?’

  Her vehemence shamed him. Why could he not decide what to do? Why could he not share her certainty?

  ‘Will you?’

  Then he heard himself reply: ‘Yes.’

  She clutched his hand. ‘Constance is here, Mr Davenall. She needs your advice, now that we can be sure you will not condone a miscarriage of justice. Will you speak to her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then, come with me.’

  As Miss Sumner bustled ahead of him out of the court, Richard managed his first weak smile of the day. That anybody should look to him for advice seemed, just then, uniquely absurd. With nobody else to support his claim, however, Norton would lose: Richard was sure of it. His conscience told him he
could not permit that to happen. Yet, if he was to prevent it, he must turn his back on his own son. For one reared on the compromises of the Law, the path out of such a thicket seemed impossible to find. Now, in the determination which he remembered Constance Trenchard displaying, and which her sister evidently shared, he believed he might have found the guide he needed.

  II

  Thoughts of luncheon were far from the mind of Mr Charles Russell, QC, as he sat in Hector Warburton’s office at Staple Inn, seeking by every means at his wide command to break the eerily tranquil fatalism which seemed to have gripped his client.

  The case of Norton versus Davenall was rapidly assuming for Russell a disastrous character. He had accepted it because Warburton was noted for backing winners, because Norton himself was so disarmingly plausible and because such a coup de théâtre was exactly what his hopes of political office required. He had not sat in Parliament for the past two and a half years out of love for his constituents; rather, because it rendered him eligible for the post of Attorney-General which he so coveted. To be non-suited at the hearing stage by a former law officer of the opposing party might be tolerated if it were merely embarrassing. But, if, as seemed likely, it would prove fatal to his ambitions, then it was not to be endured.

  ‘I am not sure, Mr Norton,’ he said with a determined effort to suppress his anger, ‘that you appreciate how perilously we are placed.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Norton replied, ‘I appreciate it very clearly.’

  ‘If you had not insisted on deleting all reference to Sir Gervase—’

  ‘Would you have had me drag my father’s name through the mire?’

  ‘To save your own from the same fate, yes.’

  Norton sat back in his chair and drew on a cigarette. ‘Well, I can hardly change my tune at this stage, gentlemen – now, can I?’

  ‘No,’ Mr Russell conceded dismally. ‘Indeed you cannot.’

  Warburton, who had been standing by the window, advanced slowly to his desk and, stooping over it, regarded Norton levelly. ‘It is not too late to subpoena Mrs Trenchard. We might request an adjournment for the purpose.’

  ‘I have undertaken to leave her out of this.’

  ‘If forced to testify, would she acknowledge you?’

  ‘I believe she would.’

  ‘Then, I suggest you break your undertaking. It’s your only hope.’

  ‘Surely not my only hope, Mr Russell?’

  Russell took a deep breath before replying. ‘Your refusal to answer Giffard’s question is a severe handicap. If there was just one other person besides Miss Pursglove to testify for you, I would entertain hopes of overcoming that handicap. As it is, we will have to rely on breaking down a defence witness. In my view, the possibility is remote.’

  ‘Poor Nanny,’ said Norton musingly. ‘She was terribly upset afterwards, you know.’

  ‘If I were Giffard,’ Russell continued, ‘I would reserve the defence and defy the judge to say there is a case to be answered. An hour from now, we may have been non-suited. The defence cannot lose today, Mr Norton. It can only fail to win. For us, on the other hand, there is no second chance.’

  Norton smiled. ‘For me, you mean. You paint a bleak picture of my prospects, Mr Russell.’

  ‘That is because—’

  There had come a sharp rap at the door. Warburton, who had given instructions that they should not be disturbed, looked up irritably at the clerk who entered. ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s a gentleman in the outer office, sir, wishing to see Mr Norton as a matter of extreme urgency.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Mr Richard Davenall, sir.’

  Warburton was thunderstruck. What business the defence solicitor had calling on the plaintiff at such a crucial stage he could not imagine. If not unethical, it was certainly unorthodox, and Richard Davenall was neither. What could the fellow be thinking of? ‘Tell him—’ he began.

  ‘Tell him I’ll be out to see him directly,’ Norton interrupted.

  ‘That would be unwise. There’s no knowing—’

  ‘I’ll see him.’

  Warburton compressed his lips and nodded curtly to the clerk. ‘Put him in Mr Thrower’s room for the moment.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  As soon as the door had closed behind the retreating clerk, Warburton let fly some of the resentment he felt of a client who had rejected his advice once too often. ‘You must let me deal with this. It would be quite improper for you to speak to him at this point.’

  Norton rose from his chair and smiled blandly. ‘Nevertheless, I will speak to him. And I will speak to him alone.’

  ‘That would be the height of folly. You have no idea what proposals he may make.’

  ‘My mind is made up. Don’t worry, Mr Warburton. I won’t blame you if it turns out badly. Now, please excuse me, gentlemen.’ With that, he walked swiftly from the room, leaving Warburton and Russell to gape at each other in amazement.

  III

  Norton followed the clerk’s directions to the end of a straggling corridor and opened the door of Mr Thrower’s room. It was more cluttered and less businesslike than Warburton’s, narrow at the entrance, with a step down to where the vast desk stood piled with pink-bound parchment and an oriel window looked out across the grey censorious roofs of Holborn.

  Towards these Richard Davenall had been gazing till, at the sound of Norton closing the door behind him, he turned, nodded a diffident greeting and said: ‘You came, then.’

  ‘Of course.’ Norton advanced across the room. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’

  ‘I thought Warburton would advise you not to see me at this juncture.’

  ‘He did.’ Norton paused on the step and looked down at Richard with no hint of artifice in his open quizzical face.

  ‘He gave you good advice.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I might be here to offer you a last-minute compromise, a face-saving formula. I might be here to do a deal.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘For two reasons. First, I have no doubt Hugo believes he can defeat me. He wants nothing less than outright victory. He has no need of saving face. Second, even if he had, I don’t think you would agree to act as his messenger. Not now.’

  Richard stroked his beard. ‘You’re right. On both counts.’

  ‘Then, what brings you here?’

  ‘I have something to say to you.’ Richard rounded the desk and placed himself in front of Norton, gazing up candidly into his face. He swallowed hard, as if plucking up his courage, then said: ‘I want you to know that I believe you to be James.’ He smiled uncertainly. ‘You would say I’ve known all along and, in a sense, I suppose I have. But you must realize how difficult it’s been for the family to come to terms with the fact that you’re alive. God knows, like them, I’ve tried to pretend that you’re an impostor, but it hasn’t worked. I’ve spoken to you, I’ve listened to you, I’ve heard you testify in court: every day I’ve grown more and more certain that you are my cousin. And now I can’t stand by any longer and let others deny what I know to be true.’ He held out his hand. ‘Will you forgive me for not acknowledging you from the first?’

  ‘Forgive? Will I forgive?’ Norton stumbled down from the step and moved unsteadily to the desk. He stooped across it, his hands pressed flat against the surface, breathing heavily and jerking his head aside when Richard touched his shoulder.

  ‘James?’

  ‘It’s all right. Give me a moment.’ With a tremor, he stepped back, then raised himself upright and let out a long breath of regained composure. ‘I’m sorry. Excuse that display. In order to survive, I have inured myself to rejection. Nowadays, only acceptance is too much for me.’ He turned, smiling broadly, and shook Richard’s hand. ‘God bless you, cousin, for accepting me.’

  ‘I could not let the Law denounce you as an impostor, when I know you are not.’

 
‘The Law may still say I am.’

  ‘Not after I’ve testified for you this afternoon. What I intend to say will ensure you do not lose.’

  ‘You will testify for me?’

  ‘After we parted last night, I came to realize that I had no honourable alternative.’

  ‘My mother and brother will never forgive you.’

  ‘They will, in time.’

  ‘I don’t think so. This will split our family irrevocably.’

  ‘I pray not. But, if it does, so be it. I’ve taken the easy way out too often in my life. Eventually, a man has to face the consequences of his actions. For me, that time has come.’

  ‘I know how much this means to you, Richard. You have my admiration as well as my gratitude.’

  ‘There is nothing admirable in what I’m doing, James. I should have done it weeks ago, when I first knew, in my own mind, that you were who you claimed to be. Even now, I’m not sure I’d have found the courage to come forward if it hadn’t been for Constance. She’s the one you should be grateful to.’

  ‘Constance?’

  ‘I’ve just left her. Come and see.’ Richard led him to the window. Looking out, they saw below them in the small garden of Staple Inn two women seated on a bench beside the fountain: Emily Sumner, glancing anxiously from side to side and twitching at her bonnet, and her sister Constance, a still, slender figure in grey fur coat and lilac dress gazing pensively into the sprinkling waters of the fountain whilst a stray breeze stirred the feathers on her hat.