She had never liked him, he reflected as he gazed gloomily out of the window at the vast and ugly building taking shape in the grounds. A mausoleum, he gathered, for the accommodation of her husband, her son, and in due course, herself. An abbey alongside was also planned, for the comfort and convenience of the flock of refugee monks whose bat-like presence threatened to blot out spring in this corner of Hampshire. Not that any of it surprised him, stemming as it did from the perversely pious nature that had made her reject his sexual advances in Madrid in 1843, when she was seventeen and he was in his prime. Forty years later, it was painfully clear that her taste had not improved.
There was a knock at the door, and Brunet came in, but Plon-Plon’s hopes that Eugenie at last felt able to see him were swiftly dashed.
‘A lady wishes to see you, mon grand seigneur.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Catherine Davenall.’
‘Merde!’ This was bad news indeed. If Eugenie came to hear of his involvement in the Davenall case, he could bid adieu to any hopes of a pact with her. ‘Where is she?’
‘In the red drawing-room.’
‘I will speak to her.’ He hurried to the door. ‘But listen to me, I absolutely forbid any interruptions, do you understand?’
‘Yes, mon grand seigneur, absolutely.’
She was standing on the far side of the room when he entered, gazing up at a large oil painting of Eugenie with the Prince Imperial. In the instant it took her to turn round he wondered if they had ever been alone together since her visit to his apartment in Constantinople nearly thirty years ago; on balance, he rather thought not.
She had changed. He could see it in her set and regal bearing, her pale indomitable face. Where once there had been vanity, ignorance and a trusting nature, there was now a hard-won tempered resolve. She had left the errors of youth behind and attained a flawless sense of purpose, whilst for Plon-Plon, alas, the fallibilities of the past remained the snares of the present. ‘Madame,’ he said, pressing the door shut behind him and inclining his head in the faintest of bows. ‘A votre service.’
Catherine made no move towards him. Across the carpeted gap of the drawing-room, their glances joined, acknowledged their differences, and parted. ‘I have come to ask for your help,’ she said abruptly.
Plon-Plon frowned. For one who had long shown him nothing but the coldest contempt now to seek his assistance, with neither apology nor explanation, was incomprehensible. ‘My help, madame?’
‘There is nobody else I can ask.’ Her expression implied, though she did not say, that he was, in truth, the very last person she would turn to. ‘You have followed Hugo’s lawsuit?’
‘Avec l’imposteur? Of course.’
‘L’imposteur, as you correctly term him, has made an excellent impression on the court.’
‘So the newspapers tell me.’
‘In the opinion of my lawyers, Norton will win the case.’
‘They have said that?’
‘No. I observe that they think it. What they tell me is quite different.’
‘Have you no witnesses to speak against him?’
‘A positive regiment, I believe. But they will not prevail.’
‘You are certain?’
‘Yes. If I were not James’s mother, I would be taken in by this man. The jury believe him, and the judge is inclined to. The case has many weeks to run, but its outcome is already decided.’
‘Then, you have my sympathy.’
‘That, Prince, is of no use to me. What I require is your help.’
Plon-Plon walked slowly across the room towards her, until they were standing at either end of the painting she had been inspecting. He glanced up at it and curled his lip: Eugenie looked matronly and prematurely old in her widow’s weeds, the Prince Imperial callow and faintly ridiculous in his Woolwich cadet’s uniform. ‘This house,’ he remarked, ‘is full of memorials to the Empress’s late son, as you may have observed. A mausoleum-in-waiting, you might say, until the genuine article is complete.’
‘I had noticed.’
‘Eugenie carries her bereavement with her like a pack on her back, like a ball and chain about her feet.’ He looked directly at Catherine and continued: ‘But you, madame, never mention your dead son, as distinct from his impersonator. Why is that?’
‘James is dead. He belongs to the past. I do not.’
Plon-Plon shook his head in puzzlement. ‘So frank, decisive, so … detached. You were not always so.’
‘I dare say neither of us, Prince, wishes to be reminded of what we were.’
‘Touché, madame. C’est vrai.’
A flicker of impatience passed across Catherine’s face, as if the discomfort of their encounter was one she wished to foreshorten. ‘I have come to speak to you about Vivien Strang,’ she said suddenly.
Plon-Plon stepped back in amazement. ‘Vivien Strang?’
‘You were eager enough to speak to me about her in Constantinople, were you not?’
‘A long time ago, madame.’ He struggled to recover his dignity. ‘You said yourself that such reminders were unwelcome.’
‘I simply wish to know where she is.’
‘You think I can tell you?’
‘You know more of her life since she left my father’s house in 1846 than I do. You knew she was pregnant – and by whom. You knew she was nursing in the Crimea. I hoped, therefore, that you might still know something of her.’
‘No, madame. I know nothing of her.’
‘Yet you have guessed, as I have, that she is behind this conspiracy against my family.’
So. He was not alone in his suspicions. ‘I have … guessed that. Yes.’
‘But you have done nothing about it.’
‘What should I have done? It is not evidence. It is not proof. And why should I have done anything even if I could? Since we are being so very candid, madame, pray tell me what I could possibly gain from becoming involved in this … cause célèbre.’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing, Prince. Nothing at all.’ She turned and moved slowly to the window, where she gazed out for what seemed an age before looking back at him. ‘Gervase raped her, I ruined her – and you deceived her. What we have done to her is unforgivable.’
‘You admit these things?’
‘I admit them to you because you and I alone know the truth. To have it known to the world would be only marginally less awful than for Norton to win his case. I have told nobody that I suspect he is my husband’s son by my former governess, that his resemblance to James is that of a half-brother, that his motivation is his mother’s desire for revenge. I have told nobody – because nobody must know. But you and I already share the secret, do we not? So there is nothing to be lost by telling you.’
‘But what is it that you want me to do?’
‘It was you who deceived her. I thought you might now be able to dissuade her.’
‘Moi?’
‘I gather what drew her to the maze that night was the prospect of meeting you. Perhaps, therefore, she might be prepared to meet you again – and to call off her son.’
‘C’est absurde. She would do nothing for me, even supposing I could find her.’
‘What she would never accept from me she might accept from you. A compromise. A settlement out of court.’
‘It would not work, madame. If you are right – if we are right … she has planned this too long to be deflected now.’
But Catherine was unmoved. Her certainty was unarguable, her implication clear that, by this one service, Plon-Plon could win back her respect. ‘If we share what we know of her, Prince, I believe we can find her. The question is therefore a simple one. Will you help me?’
An hour had passed since Catherine’s departure. Plon-Plon peered from the window once more and winced at sight of the scaffolded shell of the mausoleum. Was this domed and crenellated monument to a redundant dynasty so much worthier a life’s work than his own random brilliances? He thought not. But he, as eve
r, was in the minority.
Forty years ago, in Madrid, Eugénie had flirted with the bullfighters and ridden bareback through the streets; she had smoked his cigars and dressed like a gypsy. Now she wore dresses that looked like shrouds and sat in darkened rooms studying plans of the mausoleum with its architect. If he were to win her over, his only reward would be the offer of a shelf for his own coffin.
So why not? Why not quit Farnborough and embark on the grandest folly of his life? Not because his dead friend’s proud and pitiless widow had abased herself to plead with him. Nor yet because the sheer impudence of Norton’s fraudulent claim irked him by the envy it inspired. Not even because he wished to look on Vivien Strang’s face once more and win from her some form of absolution. No. He would not seek her out for any of those reasons. He would seek her out because he wanted to. He would find her in order to prove that he could.
IV
Nanny Pursglove’s testimony was more effective than it had been at the hearing. Clearly, she still resented the suggestions made then that her memory and eyesight were suspect. Accordingly, she set about proving that they were not by a display of unflagging vigour during two days in the witness-box. Gilchrist was unable to make the slightest impact, and her eviction from Weir Cottage, skilfully introduced into her evidence by Russell, at once ensured her of the jury’s sympathy.
As for Dr Fiveash, equivocal though he might be, he could say little that did not strengthen the plaintiff’s case. There were times when he seemed to be pinned on the horns of several dilemmas, uncertain how much or how little to reveal. At one point, indeed, he seemed inclined to claim that his records had been spied upon, but Russell succeeded in strangling the idea at birth.
‘Who do you suggest could have done such a thing, Doctor?’
‘A temporary secretary whom I employed in January of last year.’
‘Interesting. Why did you take her on?’
‘My permanent secretary was injured in a cycling accident.’
‘How could this spy have known such a vacancy would arise?’
‘I can only think the accident was … contrived. The bicycle may have been … tampered with.’
‘Did you have cause to think so at the time?’
‘Ah … no.’
‘And why should such a … spy … have thought there was anything to be found in your records, given that, according to your previous testimony, nobody knew James Davenall had even consulted you?’
‘I … cannot account for that.’
‘I see. Well, thank you, Doctor, for raising this interesting, if remote, possibility. I feel sure the jury will know how to regard it.’
Dr Fabius, being so much more eminent than Fiveash and possessed of an altogether more confident manner, rounded off the medical evidence in a way which, from the plaintiff’s point of view, could hardly have been bettered. Fiveash had asserted that the symptoms of syphilis were unmistakable and that a spontaneous recovery from the disease was impossible, but Fabius refuted both contentions.
‘Even with my specialist experience, I would not be confident of correctly diagnosing syphilis on every occasion. It often appears in disguise. Similarly, it may vanish altogether for no apparent reason. It is le feu follet of diseases. It is deceptive, misleading, unpredictable. There is nothing certain about it.’
‘You cannot say, then, Doctor, whether my client has recovered from syphilis or has never suffered from it at all?’
‘I cannot. All I can say is that he does not suffer from it now.’
‘How did he react when you told him this?’
‘Like a man reprieved from a prison sentence. Like a man told he may live again.’
Not like a man who knew what you would say before you said it?’
‘I hardly think so.’
As the eighth week of the trial ended, the defence had still to make an impression. Norton was riding high.
V
The slats at Plon-Plon’s end of the bench reacted with a discomforting jerk to the arrival of a second waiting passenger. He, too, was large and lugubrious in appearance and, like Plon-Plon, anxious to be on his way.
‘She’s late,’ he said irritably.
Plon-Plon did not respond. His companion had already aroused his suspicions by the expensive but tasteless cut of his overcoat. Now the coarse but swaggering tone of his voice convinced him that he was dealing with an example of one of the types he most detested: the nouveau riche.
‘What brought you tae Dumfries, then?’ An answer, had Plon-Plon cared to give one, would not have been easy to frame. The only sure facts known to Catherine Davenall about the origins of Vivien Strang were that she had been born in Dumfries, the daughter of a local draper. Now, gazing across the railway line at the grey roofs of this grudging little town, Plon-Plon reflected without pleasure on the attempt he had made that day to explore those origins.
Broom Bank, the house where Vivien Strang had been born, was tall, angular, raw-stoned and dour, comfortlessly perched in bedraggled gardens high about the River Nith. Plon-Plon had to wait for a long time in the sunless porch before the doorbell was answered.
‘Moncalieri,’ he announced, doffing his hat to the moon-faced maid. ‘Jerome Moncalieri.’
‘Goodness!’
He pondered for a rueful moment the mystery of why only the commonest women seemed impressed by him, then said: ‘I would very much like to speak to your mistress.’
‘Which one?’ came the gape-mouthed question. Plon-Plon was at a loss for an answer. Fortunately, the maid went on: ‘There’s only Miss Effie – Mistress Euphemia, that is – at home.’
‘Then, Mistress Euphemia it is.’
‘Well … I don’t know … I shall have tae ask … What … what shall I say your business is?’
‘Personal – and urgent. I have come a long way.’
That, he reflected during the slow-moving minutes for which he was left in the porch, was no word of a lie. A long way, a long time … and perhaps he should never have come at all.
The maid returned, marginally less flustered than before, and showed him in. Soon he was alone again, in a high-ceilinged drawing-room at the back of the house, furnished after the fashion of a crowded junk shop he had passed on his way from the station, smelling of camphor, hassock-covers and new bread.
The door opened to admit a tiny, slight, panting creature clad all in quivering pink. ‘I am Euphemia Strang,’ she said, mincing towards him. ‘I believe you wanted to see me.’ She gazed up at him with huge dormouse eyes and extended a delicate trembling hand. ‘Signor Moncalieri?’
According to Catherine, Vivien Strang had spoken of having two sisters: this, he concluded, must be one of them. He stooped, kissed her shrivelled knuckles and looked up to find her blushing a deeper pink than her dress. ‘Charmed, Mademoiselle, to make your acquaintance.’
‘You are not … Italian?’
He smiled. ‘French.’
‘Oh.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Well … would you … care for some tea?’
‘That would be delightful.’
Tea was duly served, whilst Plon-Plon engaged his hostess in conversation. This was not difficult, for, whatever he said, Miss Strang merely cocked her head and stared at him in rapt awestruck attention, never once pressing him to explain his visit, apparently for fear that it might be cut short. Midway through his second cup of tea and his third slice of Dundee cake, he decided he could prevaricate no longer.
‘I fear I must turn, Mademoiselle, to the reason I called here this afternoon.’
‘Oh … yes?’
‘It concerns your sister.’
‘Lydia?’
‘Your other sister.’ Euphemia Strang’s eyes extended still further their phenomenal circumference. ‘Vivien.’
‘You know … Vivien?’
‘I knew her many years ago. Alas, we have since lost contact. I hoped you might be able to put me in touch with her.’
‘How many … years ago, Monsieur?’
; ‘More than thirty.’
‘1846 perhaps?’
‘As a matter of fact—’
‘Euphemia!’ The voice was harsh and censorious. It came from a tall, stiff-backed, lean-faced woman in grey who had entered the room without their noticing and stood now by the door, glaring across at them. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
Plon-Plon rose and essayed a charming smile. ‘Mademoiselle Lydia, I presume?’
‘Correct. Who are you, sir?’
‘Moncalieri. Jerome Moncalieri. Your sister has made me—’
‘Leave us, Euphemia! I will speak to this gentleman alone.’
Her tone left no scope for protest and reduced Euphemia to a state of mute trembling obedience. She had scuttled from the room before Plon-Plon was properly aware she had gone.
‘Kindly state your business, sir.’
It was at once obvious to Plon-Plon that Lydia Strang lacked all her sister’s susceptibility to charm. ‘I came to enquire about your sister Vivien.’
‘I have only one sister. She has just left this room.’
‘Come, come. Vivien Strang—’
‘I know nobody by that name.’
‘You grew up with her. It is absurd to deny it.’
Lydia Strang’s narrow mouth tightened. ‘I must ask you to leave this house, sir. At once.’
‘All I want to know is where she is.’
‘I told you. She does not exist.’
‘She bore a child out of wedlock. Is that why you disown her?’
A searching intensity came into Lydia’s hostile eyes. ‘Did Euphemia tell you so?’
‘No. I knew it already.’
At that, her resolve faltered, though only slightly and only for an instant. ‘You will be so good as to explain yourself, sir.’
‘I am anxious to locate your sister Vivien. I am not interested in old scandals. I do not wish to cause you any embarrassment. I merely wish to know Vivien’s current whereabouts.’
A curl came to Lydia’s thin lips that could have denoted satisfaction. ‘It scarcely matters. We do not know where she is. We do not know whether she is alive or dead. We do not care. Our father, may the Lord preserve his memory, expelled her from this house and this family thirty-seven years ago. He sent her away, a harlot, to seek her Babylon. From that day forth, she ceased to be our sister.’
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