word reaches you by the due time.’
‘I’m obliged.’
‘Now I think we should withdraw. Baverstock?’
The rural lawyer started in his chair. Dumbstruck throughout, he now found his voice with difficulty. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Absolutely.’
‘One last point,’ said Warburton. ‘Lest you should pin any hopes on Sir Hugo’s belief that my client is ignorant of what he currently declines to state openly, I should tell you that we have obtained a copy of Sir Gervase Davenall’s death certificate. The implications of its contents will be used in court if there appears to be no alternative.’
Richard Davenall looked towards Fiveash. ‘Is the import of this clear to you, Doctor?’
The reply was a husky whisper. ‘Yes.’
VI
Sir Hugo Davenall sat like a man stunned in the corner of his cousin’s office off High Holborn. His earlier anxiety had departed and had been replaced by a sullen lethargy: he had not even removed the sodden overcoat in which he had walked from Staple Inn. He stared straight ahead, breathing heavily, lower lip protruding, his chin cradled in his left hand whilst, with his right, he traced and retraced the embroidered relief of the pattern on the arm of his chair.
Cleveland stood by the window, clutching a glass of Scotch to his chest and smoking languidly, staring vacantly out at the street. Beside him, Trenchard was propped against the sill, back turned to the passing trams, apparently lost in thought. To one side of the window, behind a broad and disordered desk, Richard Davenall was immersed in whispered conference with Baverstock; both wore worried frowns. By the door, Dr Fiveash was pacing to and fro, sometimes pausing by the ceiling-high bookcase to squint at the spine of a legal tome – though never taking it down to read; sometimes pulling out his pocket-watch to check the time – though never commenting on its significance beyond a heavy sigh as he returned the watch to his waistcoat.
Only Trenchard looked up when the door opened and a clerk entered. He walked straight over to Richard Davenall’s desk and craned across it.
‘Yes, Benson?’
‘A messenger from Claridge’s Hotel delivered this note for you a few moments ago, sir. The sender’s name is Moncalieri.’
Davenall had opened and read the note before the door had even closed behind its bearer, but a click of the tongue was his only immediate reaction.
‘What does Bonny Prince Napoleon have to say for himself?’ asked Cleveland.
Davenall smiled grimly. ‘He is more than somewhat displeased. It seems he is to return to France … immediately.’
‘Deserting the sinking ship?’
‘He may see it that way. Certainly he has no taste for further encounters with Mr Norton. He found their discussion … disagreeable. Perhaps it is just as well. I fear Warburton would make considerable capital out of remarks like this: “Monsieur Norton’s reference to a specific date in 1846 is pure moonshine. It has no significance. Moreover, it is inconceivable that Sir Gervase should have told him of such things.”’
‘What things?’
‘Precisely. If the date is insignificant, there is nothing to tell. Yet he implies there is. No wonder the Bonapartist cause has not prospered under his leadership.’ Davenall slowly tore the note in four and dropped the pieces into a wastepaper-basket. ‘So much for our noble ally.’
‘I’ve thought very carefully about everything that Norton said,’ Trenchard interjected.
‘I’m sure we all have,’ Davenall snapped. Then: ‘I do beg your pardon, Trenchard. Nerves a touch frayed. What do you conclude from his remarks?’
‘That he spoke the truth. Something happened, involving Prince Napoleon and Sir Gervase, at Cleave Court in September 1846. Something discreditable, perhaps even disgraceful. And Norton knows about it. Who else would know?’
‘Only Catherine. I have agreed with Baverstock’ – a nod to his colleague – ‘that he should broach the subject with
‘I’m obliged.’
‘Now I think we should withdraw. Baverstock?’
The rural lawyer started in his chair. Dumbstruck throughout, he now found his voice with difficulty. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Absolutely.’
‘One last point,’ said Warburton. ‘Lest you should pin any hopes on Sir Hugo’s belief that my client is ignorant of what he currently declines to state openly, I should tell you that we have obtained a copy of Sir Gervase Davenall’s death certificate. The implications of its contents will be used in court if there appears to be no alternative.’
Richard Davenall looked towards Fiveash. ‘Is the import of this clear to you, Doctor?’
The reply was a husky whisper. ‘Yes.’
VI
Sir Hugo Davenall sat like a man stunned in the corner of his cousin’s office off High Holborn. His earlier anxiety had departed and had been replaced by a sullen lethargy: he had not even removed the sodden overcoat in which he had walked from Staple Inn. He stared straight ahead, breathing heavily, lower lip protruding, his chin cradled in his left hand whilst, with his right, he traced and retraced the embroidered relief of the pattern on the arm of his chair.
Cleveland stood by the window, clutching a glass of Scotch to his chest and smoking languidly, staring vacantly out at the street. Beside him, Trenchard was propped against the sill, back turned to the passing trams, apparently lost in thought. To one side of the window, behind a broad and disordered desk, Richard Davenall was immersed in whispered conference with Baverstock; both wore worried frowns. By the door, Dr Fiveash was pacing to and fro, sometimes pausing by the ceiling-high bookcase to squint at the spine of a legal tome – though never taking it down to read; sometimes pulling out his pocket-watch to check the time – though never commenting on its significance beyond a heavy sigh as he returned the watch to his waistcoat.
Only Trenchard looked up when the door opened and a clerk entered. He walked straight over to Richard Davenall’s desk and craned across it.
‘Yes, Benson?’
‘A messenger from Claridge’s Hotel delivered this note for you a few moments ago, sir. The sender’s name is Moncalieri.’
Davenall had opened and read the note before the door had even closed behind its bearer, but a click of the tongue was his only immediate reaction.
‘What does Bonny Prince Napoleon have to say for himself?’ asked Cleveland.
Davenall smiled grimly. ‘He is more than somewhat displeased. It seems he is to return to France … immediately.’
‘Deserting the sinking ship?’
‘He may see it that way. Certainly he has no taste for further encounters with Mr Norton. He found their discussion … disagreeable. Perhaps it is just as well. I fear Warburton would make considerable capital out of remarks like this: “Monsieur Norton’s reference to a specific date in 1846 is pure moonshine. It has no significance. Moreover, it is inconceivable that Sir Gervase should have told him of such things.”’
‘What things?’
‘Precisely. If the date is insignificant, there is nothing to tell. Yet he implies there is. No wonder the Bonapartist cause has not prospered under his leadership.’ Davenall slowly tore the note in four and dropped the pieces into a wastepaper-basket. ‘So much for our noble ally.’
‘I’ve thought very carefully about everything that Norton said,’ Trenchard interjected.
‘I’m sure we all have,’ Davenall snapped. Then: ‘I do beg your pardon, Trenchard. Nerves a touch frayed. What do you conclude from his remarks?’
‘That he spoke the truth. Something happened, involving Prince Napoleon and Sir Gervase, at Cleave Court in September 1846. Something discreditable, perhaps even disgraceful. And Norton knows about it. Who else would know?’
‘Only Catherine. I have agreed with Baverstock’ – a nod to his colleague – ‘that he should broach the subject with
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