Painting The Darkness - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Then, perhaps we had better say no more until you do. Except …’

  ‘Yes?’

  James smiled in a hint of conciliation. ‘If your allegations went no further, Richard, we could dismiss them as mere aberrations. For that matter, we could agree to forget them altogether. If you persist in them, however, you will alienate yourself from me – and from Constance. Since you’ve already alienated yourself from Hugo and my mother, don’t you think you’re going to feel rather lonely?’

  Momentarily, Richard seemed to waver. ‘It’s too late to turn back now.’

  ‘Surely not. I never saw you as the boat-burning type.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean why force a crisis? My claim has been settled. Why rake over it again when you stand to lose more than anyone by doing so?’

  ‘You have forced a crisis, not I,’ Richard replied, with renewed conviction. ‘You have been a party to much worse than fraud and imposture. You let Quinn arrange, or carry out, the murder of my aunt, because she alone of the family could identify you. You put up your mistress – for I take it that is what she is – to spy on Dr Fiveash’s records and to trap Trenchard into seeming to behave so badly that Constance would desert him. Because you needed her to testify for you at the hearing, Trenchard had to be disgraced in the foulest manner possible. By trying to kill you, he only made it easier for you to conquer Constance’s affections. That, I suppose, is why you volunteered to pay his asylum fees: to ensure he was so well treated that Constance would have nothing to reproach herself for. But there is one thing I cannot understand.’

  ‘No doubt you’re about to tell me what that is?’

  There was a trace now of something close to horror in Richard’s voice. ‘Why do you mean to marry her? Your deception of her has served its purpose. And your mistress, I gather, is waiting in the wings. So why prolong the charade?’

  ‘Because it is not a charade, Richard. I am your cousin James. I love Constance as I have always loved her. There has been no fraud, no imposture, no murder plot, no conspiracy. I am who I am – and you are wrong.’

  When Richard had gone, James remained as calm as ever, his composure unwavering, his movements unhurried. He finished his cigarette and poured himself a large whisky. Then he carried the glass out with him to the hall and walked slowly up the stairs to where an oil painting of Sir Gervase Davenall hung proudly amongst his ancestors. There, sipping the whisky and staring at the handsome painted likeness of his father – the likeness, that is, of what he had been before disease came to twist his arrogant features – James reflected on what had occurred. Whether Richard’s allegations had angered or frightened him, whether he proposed to face O’Shaughnessy or flee, whether he had been moved to sorrow or to contempt, there was no way of telling from his guarded ironical expression. Even in solitude, it seemed, he was not about to betray himself.

  IV

  Plon-Plon peered through the thicket of cream-jugs and sugar-sprinklers at the marquise de Canisy, who was in the act of pouring treacle into a bowl of grapefruit segments. She had become, he believed, even more disgusting at the breakfast-table than in the bedroom. Indeed, she had nearly succeeded in the impossible: making him think nostalgically of his wife. On the whole, he could not imagine why he allowed her to remain at Prangins.

  Then the padding approach of a servant, followed by the discreet placement of a newly pressed copy of yesterday’s Times of London by his elbow, reminded him of the reason: he simply had more important things to think about.

  ‘Merci, Théodule,’ he said, positioning a monocle in his right eye and picking up the newspaper. He turned at once to the court and social page, noting with relief that no member of the British royal family had recently visited Farnborough Hill. Then he shuddered at a nauseating sound from the end of the table: something midway between a suck and a swallow. He opened the paper wider.

  There, staring at him out of the columns of newsprint, was a name he recognized. ‘It was announced yesterday … that Sir James Davenall will marry … on the 24th of this month.’ He folded the page back in a rustling burst of energy.

  A month of time-consuming and expensive enquiries by private detectives had only confirmed what Cora had told Plon-Plon: that Vivien Strang now lived in Torquay, wealthily widowed, under the name of Ratcliffe. Of any connection with Sir James Davenall – indeed, of the existence of a son at all – there had been no sign. Plon-Plon had debated with himself at length what to do next, but had come to no conclusion. Whilst to do nothing seemed craven, his enthusiasm for a confrontation with Vivien Strang had waned since his humiliations of the spring. Now, however, with this news of Sir James Davenall’s impending marriage, it was suddenly rekindled. He would show the detectives how to do their job. He would prove to Catherine that he was more resourceful than she supposed. He would pay back Norton for making a fool of him. And he would wring the truth from Vivien Strang.

  There was, besides, another aspect to consider. In France, the addlepate Bonapartists were increasingly looking to his ingrate son Victor for leadership. To reassert his supremacy, Plon-Plon would have to return to Paris, unite the party and sweep the board at the elections due in 1885. This, however, was easier contemplated than achieved. As the fiasco of his manifesto last January illustrated, he needed pet newspapers and tame candidates to serve as his mouthpiece. Above all, he needed money: the commodity he had hoped to gain by becoming involved in the Davenall case in the first place. On that score, Hugo had let him down badly. But, if he could be restored to the baronetcy thanks to Plon-Plon’s intervention, his generosity might know no bounds.

  ‘Plon-Plon,’ said the Marquise, slurping down the last of her grapefruit, ‘où est-ce que nous allons pour Noël?’

  ‘Noël, madame?’

  ‘Oui. Nous partons?’

  ‘Je pars, oui. En l’Angleterre.’

  ‘En Angleterre? Merveilleux!’

  ‘Mais non—’

  But it was too late. Already, like a smartly steered pirate galleon, the marquise had billowed up from her seat, rounded the table and smacked a kiss on his flinching forehead. ‘J’aimerai l’Angleterre,’ she announced, with a treacly grin.

  ‘Vous comprenez mal, madame,’ he snapped back, ‘J’irai en Angleterre seul.’

  V

  Not till the second day of his re-engagement to monitor Sir James Davenall’s movements were there any movements for Roffey to monitor. Throughout Wednesday 19th December there had been neither comings nor goings at Bladeney House beyond the normal round of activities at the tradesmen’s entrance: Sir James had not stirred. Nor, accordingly, had Roffey, who, stamping and shivering in his tree-screened corner of Chester Square, could only think enviously of the toe-toasting fires his quarry must be enjoying.

  At last, shortly before ten o’clock on Thursday, 20th December, his patience was rewarded. Sir James emerged, warmly clad in overcoat and top-hat, twirling his silver-topped cane and drawing on a cigarette in just the manner Roffey could believe he had patented. After pausing to sample the chill morning air, he set off briskly towards Grosvenor Place.

  Roffey followed at a discreet distance. Sir James, he noted with relief, carried no bag and disdained to hail any of the cabs that passed. A daylight flit therefore seemed unlikely: this had more the flavour of a gentlemanly promenade. Not that Roffey was surprised. For all Mr Davenall’s nervousness, he did not believe Sir James was one to cut and run. He had come, indeed, to respect the style and subtlety of the man, which was why he would never have entrusted to a subordinate the demanding task of following him.

  At Hyde Park Corner, Sir James turned into Piccadilly. Roffey began guessing at his destination. The club? A little early perhaps. His tailor? Always a possibility. But no. He reached Piccadilly Circus without turning off, then diverted into the narrower byways of Soho. Roffey eyed with distaste the louche eating-houses and dingy theatre-backs that lay on their route. It seemed that the acquisi
tion of a baronetcy had not reduced one whit James Norton’s enthusiasm for such districts: Roffey well recalled losing his trail in these parts early on in their strangely intimate relationship.

  But not so this morning: Sir James’s erect striding figure remained in his sights all the way. They emerged, at length, in St Giles Circus and headed on eastwards. Holborn was not far off now. Perhaps he was going to visit Mr Davenall: that would be a turn-up for the books. Even as the thought formed in Roffey’s mind, however, Sir James contradicted it by a turn towards Bloomsbury.

  The British Museum: that was their destination. Roffey smiled to himself as he walked through the gates. This smacked of an assignation. Parks in summer, museums in winter: his innumerable divorce cases always adhered to the formula. Sir James took the stairs to the upper floor, and Roffey followed, restraining his steps so as not to get too close now the end was in sight.

  Sir James moved swiftly through several rooms, ignoring both the exhibits and their admirers. Then his pace slowed, as if the agreed meeting-place was drawing near. And, sure enough, rising from a bench halfway along one of the Egyptian galleries, was the woman Mr Davenall had described: Melanie Rossiter. Roffey caught his breath, stepped aside from his route and took a slow wheeling course between the sarcophagi, head bowed towards the mummified contents whilst his agile practised eyes remained fixed on the target.

  Sir James had joined Miss Rossiter on the bench, and they had at once begun talking in low and urgent tones. A mule-voiced teacher instructing a pack of schoolchildren in embalming techniques on the other side of the room dashed Roffey’s hopes of hearing what they were saying. He would have to edge perilously close.

  She was beautiful: there was no doubting that. The fur collar of her coat caressed a delectable chin. Sloe-dark eyes scanned Sir James’s face as he spoke. And her lips, as they shaped themselves to some passionate entreaty, were such as to make any man forget his duty, whatever his duty was.

  Roffey was standing now by a mould-stained casket which he feared might contain a mummified crocodile. Not that it mattered, for its position was all he cared about. He had only to take one rapt and studious step back, he judged, to catch a few words. And so it proved.

  ‘I thought you had agreed to meet me because you had changed your mind,’ said Miss Rossiter.

  ‘I came here to warn you,’ Sir James replied. ‘That is all.’

  ‘Surely you exaggerate the threat this man poses?’

  ‘No. If O’Shaughnessy identifies me, how can I prove he’s wrong?’

  ‘And you think—’

  Roffey cursed silently. He had moved an inch too close, or lingered a moment too long. Whichever was the case, he had aroused their suspicion. Keeping his eyes fixed on the casket before him so as not to compound his error, he heard them rise from the bench and walk away down the gallery. When he dared to look round, it was only to catch a glimpse of them passing on into the next room. Though naturally he would follow, he knew he could not now afford to draw the slightest attention to himself without risking a disastrous confrontation.

  He need not have worried. When next he saw them, they were on the point of separating. They were standing on the high and echoing landing at the head of the stairs, exchanging a parting word, when his glance through the wide doorway of the adjoining gallery alighted upon them. There was no kiss, no squeeze of the hand; not even, as far as Roffey could see, an eloquent meeting of the eyes. Sir James merely set off down the stairs without a backward glance, whilst Miss Rossiter watched him go. Then she circled the stairwell and walked slowly away towards the next set of galleries.

  Sir James would go back now to Bladeney House: Roffey felt sure of it. Yet he would have to follow him for safety’s sake. Thus his instinct, which was to follow Miss Rossiter, had to be ignored. So little was known of her that he would have liked to find out more. But his instructions were clear, and Roffey was not a man to disobey those who employed him. Glancing regretfully after Miss Rossiter’s retreating figure, he started down the stairs.

  VI

  The Little Canonry,

  Cathedral Close,

  SALISBURY,

  Wiltshire.

  20th December 1883

  My dear Richard,

  I write these few lines in haste and with a troubled conscience. Constance continues eagerly to anticipate her wedding in merciful ignorance of what we know may well prevent it taking place. The fact that I am sure we are right to intervene in this way makes it no easier for me to bear the thought of the anguish we will cause her.

  So far as the practical aspect of your proposals is concerned, you need have no fear. We shall travel up by the first train on Saturday morning and will therefore be in Highgate by eleven o’clock. Father does not propose to come up until Monday morning, and Patience will remain here with her nanny. It affords me some slight consolation to think that they will not witness what takes place.

  There has been no word of any kind from James. Thus your suspicion that he might try to forewarn Constance appears to be unfounded. She is full of nothing but plans for spending Christmas at Cleave Court as Lady Davenall, plans which make her happier than I believe I have ever known her. What suffering it causes me to make an outward show of sharing her joy, whilst inwardly knowing the grief that awaits, I shall leave you to imagine. Be assured, however, that I shall not falter. I have prayed long and hard enough to be certain that what we are doing is right, for what is right is seldom easy.

  May God be with you.

  Affectionately yours,

  Emily

  VII

  Sir James Davenall left home early on the morning of Friday 21st December, took a cab to Liverpool Street station and there caught a train to Newmarket. To Roffey, trailing the cab in one of his own hiring, standing a few places behind in the ticket queue and sitting a few compartments away on the train, Sir James seemed as unaware of being followed as he was careless of the possibility. But Roffey remained suspicious, for previous experience had taught him that this man was at his most elusive when he seemed most transparent.

  It was mid-morning, and numbingly cold, when they reached Newmarket. Roffey left the train without hurrying and lingered in the ticket office until Sir James had negotiated the hire of a trap and set off in it. There was, at this stage, no doubt of his destination. He could have business in Newmarket with only one man: the recently installed owner of Maxton Grange, Alfred Quinn.

  On hearing from Mr Davenall of Quinn’s reappearance at the end of August, Roffey had made some desultory enquiries on the strength of a reward being offered in connection with a spate of housebreakings supposedly organized by a man named Flynn. He had found nothing to disprove Quinn’s account of himself, but he was too old a hand to believe that a windfall inheritance in far-off New Zealand was anything other than a convenient excuse.

  At length, Roffey purchased a map of the area, hired a bicycle and made a start. Maxton Grange lay some way south of the town, out along a straight road between fir-fringed paddocks. A bitter wind was blowing across the flat featureless landscape; such horses as he could see in the fields were jacketed against the chill. From a long way off, the grandiose brick-arched lodge-gates of the Grange were clearly visible, but of the house, which the map told him was set among trees some distance from the road, there was no sign. A chain was stretched across the entrance to the drive and a newly painted notice proclaimed STRICTLY PRIVATE – KEEP OUT. Roffey rode by without even slowing.

  About a quarter of a mile further on, he stopped, leaned his bicycle against the fence and climbed over a nearby stile. A narrow path ran away arrow-straight between high but patchy hedges. The map showed it as a public footpath to the village of Cheveley, its appeal to Roffey being that it passed Maxton Grange closer than any road. He started walking, glancing to his left every few yards for a sign of the house.

  This vast, open, wind-scoured country made Roffey nervous. He would have preferred the seamiest reach of London to such exposed terrain. That, it
occurred to him, might be why Quinn had chosen the place: so that unwelcome visitors could be seen long before they arrived.

  Abruptly, the Grange emerged into view through its shroud of trees. It was indeed well camouflaged. If the trees had been in leaf, they would completely have obscured it. Roffey shouldered his way through a thin stretch of hedge for a clearer view. It stood three fields away – recently built, he surmised, elegantly proportioned and well set up with bays, wings and gables, but somehow raw of outline, not yet rooted amongst its lawns and paddocks. Be that as it may, Quinn had done well for himself. Very well indeed.

  Roffey slipped a pair of binoculars out from beneath his coat and trained them on the house. Smoke was rising from the chimneys. A servant was raking a gravel path. Everything else seemed quiet. Then, when he moved round to focus on the low line of what he took to be stables away to the right, he saw them: Quinn and Sir James, walking out slowly from the stable-yard towards the paddocks.

  Quinn did not fool him, even at that distance. A heavy tweed suit, riding-boots, a switch flicking rhythmically in his right hand, a gold watch-chain glinting on his waistcoat: none of it lessened Roffey’s impression of a hard, low-born, ruthless man, cunning and brutal by turns. Sir James was doing most of the talking, and nothing on Quinn’s lined grey face betrayed a reaction.

  They reached a double line of fencing and paused. Then Quinn began talking, his mouth barely moving, his eyes fixed on Sir James. There was one swift expansive gesture of the arm, as if to emphasize the extent of his property. Otherwise he was all unsmiling economy.

  What were they talking about? Roffey wondered. Had Sir James come here to warn an accomplice that the game was up? Or to congratulate a former servant on his good fortune? From what little he could see, there was no way of telling.

  Suddenly, the conversation became animated. Quinn brought his hand down on the fence-rail so hard that it shook visibly. Then he raised the switch in his hand and jabbed it at Sir James as he spoke. There was an aggression now in his gestures and a curl to the harsh line of the mouth that suggested contempt as well as anger. If the display was meant to cow or provoke, however, it was in vain. Sir James did not so much as flinch.