‘I have her letter.’ Bucknill held it up. ‘She argues powerfully on her husband’s account. She even seeks to take some blame for his state of mind. It is encouraging that so many people wish him well.’
‘Then, how should we proceed?’ said Richard.
Bucknill smiled. ‘I will arrange certification and will notify the magistrates accordingly. When did you say he was next to be brought before them?’
‘Wednesday the twenty-second.’
‘Well, in view of Mr Norton’s accommodating attitude, I have no doubt the Bench will agree to discharge Mr Trenchard into my custody. I can recommend several excellent institutions for dealing with his problems.’
‘We want the best for him,’ said Ernest.
‘The very best?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I have some brochures which will interest you. You realize, of course, that the very best is … very expensive.’
‘Money is no object.’
‘Would that more of my patients had such enlightened and supportive families.’ Bucknill’s smile grew broad enough to mask any hint that he knew how much less embarrassing the Trenchards would find an insane relative than a criminal one. ‘You may rest assured, gentlemen, that Mr William Trenchard will enjoy every comfort in his confinement. Yes, every comfort.’
It seemed only a matter of minutes later that Richard Davenall and Ernest Trenchard were standing outside Bucknill’s Gothically porched doorway, glancing up and down Wimpole Street in the vain hope that a cab might be on hand to part them.
‘Well,’ said Ernest, ‘I suppose that went as well as we’d hoped.’
‘Yes,’ Richard replied, with a singular lack of conviction. ‘I suppose it did.’
‘Why your friend Norton—’
‘He’s my cousin, actually.’
Ernest frowned sceptically. ‘If you say so. At all events, why he’s being so extremely decent about this business I really don’t know.’
‘Because he is extremely decent.’
‘I’m not complaining. A trial would have been bad for business.’
Yes, Richard thought, that was just how this sallow-faced mean-spirited man would regard James’s generosity. Saving his brother from a prison cell meant little to him compared with safeguarding the profits of Trenchard & Leavis.
‘The fees for the place Bucknill was recommending will run to nearly five hundred a year.’ Ernest shook his head at the thought of such extravagance. ‘I’m sure somewhere cheaper would do just as well.’
‘My cousin wishes to ensure—’
‘That William doesn’t suffer. Yes, I know. Even so …’
‘Since you’re contributing nothing to the cost, Mr Trenchard, why should you care?’
Ernest looked at Richard sharply, genuinely perplexed that anybody would spend more than they needed to on his unworthy brother. ‘The county asylum would suffice,’ he said with an aggrieved air.
‘My cousin would not agree.’
‘H’m. Well, that’s his affair. I dare say it will stand him in good stead where Constance is concerned. Perhaps that is the object of the exercise.’ Then he added, before Richard had a chance to reply: ‘Well, I can’t wait for a cab any longer. I must get back to Orchard Street. Somebody has to do the work William abandoned. Good day to you, Davenall.’
Richard watched Ernest walk swiftly away down the street and found himself hoping that he would not need to see him again. The fellow apparently regarded his brother as an encumbrance of which the family was well rid. When asked if he wished to read William’s statement, he had declined in the most emphatic terms. He intended, it seemed, to forget his brother, not to try to understand him.
Would that Richard could do the same. But he realized, as he turned up his collar against the chill wind and struck out northwards, that that was something he could never hope to do. He had done his best for Trenchard, of course, but he had owed him nothing less. After all, he had been the one to assure him, all those weeks ago, that Norton was just a nine days’ wonder. How wrong he had been, how inexcusably wrong.
Since his release from hospital, James had been convalescing at Richard’s house in Highgate, with Constance in perpetual attendance. To watch those two, day after day, tenderly feeling their way towards a rediscovered love, had stilled in Richard the few doubts remaining after his change of heart, had imbued in him a contentment that was no less profound for being based on other people’s happiness.
Now all that had changed. Bucknill’s patient questioning had drawn from Trenchard a statement which seemed, to all who read it, a graphic proof of his insanity. But, in sealing his own fate, Trenchard had awoken in Richard a dormant suspicion. It might mean nothing, of course. In all probability, it did mean nothing. Yet there it remained, weeviling into the core of his well-being. There it remained and there it would give him no rest.
II
Arthur Baverstock had travelled to Cleave Court that morning in a frame of mind perfectly matched by the damp and dismal greyness which late autumn had brought to the park. The rooks were in rancorous voice amongst the stripped and sorrowful elms. Smoke from simmering leaf-stacks drifted in sluggish skeins across the empty lawns. And the house itself, as Baverstock approached it up the long drive, seemed sunk at the very heart of its family’s gathering gloom.
Lady Davenall was waiting for him in the morning room. So much he was told, but so much more he imagined, as he trod the carpeted passages of a house he wished he might never have entered. He brought news which would not please her Ladyship, and she, he felt certain, had instructions which would please him even less.
She was not alone. Sir Hugo Davenall stood by the fireplace, smoking a cigarette and chewing his fingernails. Baverstock’s depression deepened: he was to be outnumbered as well as outclassed.
‘Mr Baverstock,’ Lady Davenall said from her seat near the window. ‘Please be seated.’
Baverstock lowered himself on to the upright chair which seemed to have been prepared for him and exchanged the faintest of nodded greetings with Sir Hugo. When he squinted towards Lady Davenall, he could scarcely decipher her expression, so remote did she seem from him in the ill-lit room.
‘Do you have any progress to report?’ she said, in her quietest, most intimidating tones.
‘There is, your Ladyship, news on two counts. First, we have a projected date for the trial: the third of April.’
‘Must we wait as long as that?’ A pause during which Baverstock nerved himself to remain silent. ‘Well, what does Sir Hardinge say about it?’
‘That … er … is the second development, so to speak.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sir Hardinge has … ah, indicated that he does not wish to handle the case.’
Sir Hugo kicked the fender violently and seemed about to utter an oath until he remembered his mother’s presence. ‘Rats and a sinking ship,’ he muttered, stubbing out one cigarette and reaching for another.
‘What reason does he give?’ Lady Davenall asked, in an unaltered voice.
‘None … your Ladyship.’
Sir Hugo snorted. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
A measured pause, then Lady Davenall resumed, ‘You will find somebody else, Mr Baverstock. Somebody better.’
‘That … won’t be easy.’
‘Nevertheless, I require it to be done. Seek whatever advice you need, but find us a barrister of the highest calibre.’
‘I had thought … of taking the advice of Lewis and Lewis, the London solicitors who specialize in cases of imposture.’
‘Excellent. Do that. It is a pity, Hugo, that your cousin did not employ them. We might then have nipped this matter in the bud.’
‘Lewis and Lewis,’ Baverstock continued, ‘are likely to recommend that exhaustive enquiries be made in the United States to establish Mr Norton’s true identity.’
‘More money, no doubt,’ Sir Hugo put in.
‘Money well spent,’ his mother averred. ‘Arrange a me
eting with Lewis and Lewis, Mr Baverstock. There must be no more shilly-shallying.’
Baverstock swallowed hard. ‘Very good, your Ladyship.’
‘Now, to other matters. There is a tenancy which I wish you to terminate. A minor issue compared with what we have been discussing, but one I want attended to promptly.’
‘Which tenancy, your Ladyship?’
‘Miss Pursglove’s.’
So that was it. He might have known. Indeed, recollecting the low spirits which had dogged him on his journey to Cleave Court, he rather thought he had known. ‘Miss Pursglove?’
‘Yes, Mr Baverstock, I want Miss Pursglove evicted from Weir Cottage.’
‘But … it was intended she should enjoy rent-free tenure until her death.’
‘I am fully aware of what was intended. What was not intended was that she should feel free to slander me in court without suffering the consequences. Since she pays no rent, she need be given minimal notice. I want her out by Christmas.’
‘But—’
‘Is that clear?’
‘Er … yes. Yes, it’s clear.’
Sir Hugo smiled as he tossed his cigarette into the fire. ‘Didn’t you know, Baverstock? Those who cross my mother are shown no mercy.’
III
When Richard arrived home, Braddock informed him that James was receiving his daily visit from the doctor, so he was not surprised to find Constance in the drawing-room reading a letter by the fire. As she looked up, he noticed the frown of anxiety on her face and could not prevent himself wondering whether she was concerned for Trenchard’s welfare or concerned that he should no longer interfere with hers.
‘It is agreed,’ he announced. ‘Bucknill is happy to take William on.’
Was it relief or pleasure that flitted across her gaze? He could not tell, ‘I am glad,’ she said. ‘For William’s sake.’
He sat down beside her and squeezed her hand. ‘Well, it’s for the best, of that I’m certain. Bucknill recommends the Ticehurst Asylum in Sussex. It has a fine reputation.’
‘He would be well treated there?’
‘He would want for nothing. I’ve brought a brochure for you to see.’
Constance took the booklet from him and began leafing through it.
‘All that remains is for you to sign the necessary form of consent.’
Abruptly, she put the booklet aside and stared at him intently. ‘Consent?’
‘A mere formality.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She grew thoughtful. ‘We are doing right by William, aren’t we, Richard?’
‘I believe so. He wasn’t responsible for his actions when he attacked James. He needs the help and treatment an asylum can provide.’
‘When you say that, naturally I agree. I keep telling myself it’s the only solution. Yet I can’t help feeling that, in some way, I’ve betrayed him.’
‘Constance, if you were a treacherous wife, or if James were a vindictive man, William might well be on trial for his life. As it is …’
‘I know.’ With a visible effort, she turned her mind to other matters. ‘Emily has written.’ She held up the letter. ‘She is bringing Patience and my father next week. Are you sure you don’t mind them staying here?’
‘Not at all. I’ll be glad to see Emily again. And to make your father’s acquaintance.’
‘But we’ve imposed upon you too much already.’
‘It’s no imposition.’ He smiled. ‘This is a cold and lonely house for one, Constance. Having you and James here has been a pleasure. I’m not sure what I’ll do when …’
‘When we’ve gone? But gone where, Richard? That, too, troubles me. I am not free to marry the man I love. And that man is not even free to use his own name.’
‘Not yet.’
She looked down at the engagement ring she wore symbolically on her left hand, ‘I wonder,’ she said musingly, ‘if the uncertainty will ever end.’
Richard, though he vigorously denied it, could not help wondering the same. Nor was he able to dispel any of that uncertainty when, that evening, he paid his customary visit to James in his room after dinner and found him, as was often the case, gazing sleeplessly about, alert but unoccupied. Richard had originally attributed these contemplative phases to the natural lassitude of convalescence and had accordingly expected some change with the passage of time. But none had followed. The condition, he had concluded, was just one of the alterations eleven years had wrought in the character of his cousin.
‘The doctor is very pleased with you,’ he ventured.
‘Yes,’ James replied. ‘He proposes to cut back his visits to every other day and says I may spend some hours downstairs each afternoon.’
‘Splendid.’
‘He attributes the speed of my recovery to the excellence of my nurse.’
‘Constance has been a tower of strength.’
‘I know.’
Richard sat down beside the bed. ‘Do you remember what I said to you that day at Staple Inn, James? Do you remember what I said about Constance?’
James smiled. ‘You told me that she wanted to prove her love for me. I have not forgotten, Richard.’
‘Since you’ve both been living here, I’ve grown fond of her – concerned for her happiness.’
‘Do you think I’m not?’
‘No, of course I don’t, but …’
‘What are my intentions? Is that it?’
Richard flushed. ‘I suppose it is, yes.’
James reached out and patted his forearm. ‘Never fear, Richard. We’ll find a way. I shall aim as high as Constance permits. Friendship, if that is all she will allow. Ultimately, marriage, if she will have me. Either way, I’ll not desert her.’
‘What of her husband?’
‘I pity Trenchard, I really do, but I don’t believe Constance should be shackled to an insane husband. In time, I hope she will come to believe the same.’
‘Divorce, then?’
‘Eventually, yes, but it must be Constance’s decision. And it’s one I can’t ask her to take until I’ve won this case. There’s no sign of Hugo backing down, you know.’
Richard hung his head. ‘I had thought he would see reason. It seems I was wrong.’
‘It’s my mother who won’t see reason. She can’t forgive me for coming back – nor you for siding with me.’
‘A trial,’ Richard mused, ‘will be a long dark road for all of us.’
‘Yet, at the end of it,’ James countered, ‘I pray we will emerge into the light.’
Later, alone in the darkness of his bedroom, Richard pondered all that James had said and implied. There had been modification and caution aplenty, but at heart, he was clearly determined to force his claim to its ultimate conclusion: to deprive Hugo of the baronetcy, to force Catherine to accept him as her son, to win Constance as his wife. His brush with death at Trenchard’s hands seemed only to have strengthened his resolve. And why not, after all? None of it was any more than his due. Yet, at the thought of it, Richard could find no sleep. At the end of that long dark road down which they must all go, he could see no glimmer of light.
IV
It was a still clear night of unnatural warmth, on which the full moon imposed a strange and colourless day. Plon-Plon was running headlong through the Cleave Court maze, plunging down yew-hedged shafts of moonlight, flinging himself through slashing branches and vast invisible cobwebs. He had heard them before he had seen them: their breathing and his seemed one. As he rounded the last bend, a bat swooped across his face. He flailed with his arm to clear his sight … and then he saw. Atop his pillar, Sir Harley Davenall’s dead frozen grin. Beneath him, two bodies entwined on the grass, two bodies joined and straining, their bare flesh starkly white in the moonlight. As Plon-Plon stepped from the shadows, Vivien Strang’s eyes moved to focus on him. Twisting her head towards him, she opened her mouth, as if to …
Plon-Plon sat upright in bed, panting from the exertion of his nightmare, certain he had screamed at its
end even though he had not heard himself do so. He was regaining control now, listening for some sign that others had been disturbed. But there was nothing: dumb silence reigned throughout the house.
It was as well, Plon-Plon reflected, that Marie Clotilde was wintering in Turin. She might have taken his distress for a sign that he had seen the light. As for the servants, even if they had heard him, they would merely have hoped he had died in his sleep.
He hauled himself from the bed and groped his way to the dressing-table. There he poured brandy into a glass, swallowed too much at the first gulp and coughed convulsively. At least it cleared his head. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and sipped the rest, waiting for his senses to restore themselves to their normal complacency. To find, so late in life, that he had a conscience: it was more than he could stand.
Not that conscience was really the cause, he knew, of this recurrent dream. Three times since he had read of Norton’s victory at the hearing in London, this vision of Vivien Strang’s betrayal had come to disturb his slumbers. Why? Why now, when it was all so far too late? He swallowed more brandy and felt the warmth of its false courage seep into his soul. He had drunk brandy that night, too, had dosed himself into resentful oblivion when Gervase had not returned by the due time, had masked his sight with insensibility rather than face the truth. But the truth, whatever it was, could no longer be kept at bay. Vivien Strang, whose dreamed scream tasted of the blood she had thrown in his face at Scutari, and James Norton, whose claim encompassed every debt owed to a wronged woman, would allow him no rest.
Plon-Plon raised the glass again, but found it empty. He set it down on the bedside table with a crash, then lowered himself on to the heaped and rumpled pillows. She had warned him, after all. She had warned him, and he could not pretend otherwise. It was not enough, he knew, to have closed his curtains and drowned a frail remorse in floods of brandy. She had warned him and he could not forget.
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