Painting The Darkness Read Online Free Page A

attention
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    I thought I detected his drift. ‘Not from these appalling Fenians?
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I don’t think so: Mary never ill-treated her tenants. I believe robbery was the intention and that Mary simply got in the way: she was a spirited old soul. Not that Hugo agrees with me. Since the Phoenix Park murders, he sees Fenians behind every lamp-post. He won’t hear of going over there
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I can’t say I blame him
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Nor I. But now Norton crawls out of the woodwork to make London uncomfortable for him as well. We seem not so much unlucky as … ill-fated
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    Fate. He had said the word which had swirled like November fog round my journey to and from Bladeney House. So now I had to ask him. ‘Mr Davenall, there’s a question I must put to you. I know what you said in Sir Hugo’s presence, but this man Norton …
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Could he be James?
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Yes. That is what I cannot help wondering
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It is why you called tonight. Had your wife been absolutely certain, you would not have required a second opinion
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It is true. I cannot deny the man has me rattled. Constance and I would never have married, would never have met—
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Had James lived – or not disappeared. Well, his own mother disowned him and his brother likewise. What more do you want?
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Your unequivocal judgement, I suppose – as a man of the law
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    The cab lurched to a halt. We were at Gloucester Gate, where I had asked to be dropped. Davenall leaned out through the window and told the driver to do a circuit of the park. Clearly, whatever else his judgement was, it was not unequivocal. He eased himself back into the seat with a slight but audible sigh
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You seem to hesitate, sir. As did my wife when I asked her the same
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And for the same reason, Trenchard. Hugo was only fifteen when James disappeared and, besides, must see Norton as a threat both to his title and to his wealth, all of which would revert to his brother if he were alive. So Hugo cannot be looked to for a rational judgement. His mother certainly appears to be in no doubt that the man is an impostor. I have not spoken to Catherine myself, but I gather she is quite adamant on the point. I , of course, had the advantage – which she did not – of being forewarned. When Norton presented himself at my offices, I knew what to expect
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A fraudster?
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Yes. That is what I expected. And that is what I still believe him to be. For what else, after all, could he be? It is inconceivable that James should have staged his disappearance and then, having done so, return eleven years later. Unaccountable though his suicide was, it cannot be gainsaid by a mere fortune-hunter, however accomplished
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If he claims to be James, he must have an explanation for his conduct
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He says he has one. But I refused to hear it. When – or if – it comes to that, I want witnesses, Trenchard, I want us to hear his story together, so that it cannot be twisted or tailored to suit our individual susceptibilities. I want there to be no room for doubt
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Is there, then … room for doubt?
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I would have to admit that there is. To say Norton is not the James Davenall we knew is easy enough. But we knew a carefree young man. He was twenty-three when he vanished, about to be married, seemingly with everything to live for. Yet we know that was not the truth, that something – never to this day explained – was tragically wrong with his life. So, eleven years later, how would we expect him to be? Catherine’s letter to Hugo prepared me for a blustering impostor trading on a vague physical resemblance and a good memory for the facts he had unearthed. But that is not how he was. Sad, lonely, refined, baffled but unsurprised by our denial of him. And, yes, I have to say it: a little like James might have been
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    Silence followed, but for the clop of the horse’s hoofs and the creak of swaying leather, silence in the still and gentle