Free Painting The Darkness by Robert Goddard

another lost wager , cast the fragments of his betting-slip to the ground and proposed a gentle restorative in the bar. Today, however, he would have had to admit that a little honest long-odds luck would not have gone amiss. In its absence, he could not even vent his sarcasm at Cleveland’s expense because of the presence of their distinguished guest: a tall, immensely stout Frenchman whose entirely proportional vanity had to be flattered in every particular if his hostility to Norton was to be relied upon. One of these particulars was the maintenance of his ludicrous alias as ‘Monsieur le Comte de Moncalieri’. Not that Sir Hugo cared how he chose to register himself at Claridge’s. What smattering of knowledge he had acquired in his short and pampered existence told him that all men had something to hide and some had more than most. That, indeed, was what he was relying on.
    Back in Holborn, Norton’s exegesis was at an end. As it concluded on a note of softly spoken conviction, Hector Warburton admitted to his mind for a fleeting moment the wholly rhetorical question: Could he really be James Davenall? Not that it was even of academic interest to him. The thought had only been inspired by Norton’s consummate mastery of his role. Whether that mastery derived from truth or from theatrical excellence made no difference to Warburton. Indeed, it was imperative that he should not trammel his preparation of the case with any genuinely held belief. It was important, in other words, that he should not know the answer. For others, however – in fact for more than supposed it to be the case – it was all that mattered, all that mattered in the world.
    III
    I reached Chester Square that evening earlier than I had intended, despite lingering at Orchard Street longer than necessary, even allowing for my brother Ernest’s visit to discuss the half-yearly accounts. I went so far as encouraging him to prolong his stay by taking a glass of sherry, which must have struck him as unusual. Perhaps I had hopes of enlisting his advice in my present predicament. If so, they were to be dashed. He made a reproachful face at the proffered decanter and took himself off into the dusk
.
    So, despite all my stratagems, I arrived at Bladeney House sooner than I would have wished. Greenwood informed me that none of the other visitors who were expected had arrived, but that I might find Mr Cleveland in the music room as usual. He, it seemed, was not classed as a visitor
.
    Cleveland was draped across a sofa, legs extravagantly akimbo, chuckling over a copy of
Punch
. He looked up as I entered
.
    ‘
You here, Trenchard? For the council of war, I take it
.’
    ‘
Yes. What about you?
’
    ‘
Hugo insists. It seems I’m to fire questions at the blighter along with the rest of you – and be coached into the bargain
.’
    ‘
Really?
’
    ‘
Absolutely. What did he have for breakfast before the Boxing Day Hunt at Cleave Court in 1869? That sort of thing
.’
    I sat down opposite him. ‘And what is the answer?
’
    ‘
Blowed if I know. Whatever he says, I’m to contradict it.’ He laughed, and I joined him. ‘Bit desperate, what?
’
    ‘
Perhaps it needs to be
.’
    Cleveland pulled himself into a more upright posture. ‘Do you really think so? Surely not. James’s doctor is being trooped out, you know. Not to mention the Great Panjandrum himself
.’
    ‘
I beg your pardon?
’
    He leaned towards me and altered his voice to a stage whisper. ‘Hugo’s star witness. The so-called Count of Moncalieri. You may recognize him. If you do, say nothing: he’s grown frightfully shy in his old age. Besides, I believe his identity is to be a test of Norton’s, so to speak
.’
    ‘
I’m not sure I—
’
    I broke off as the doors opened. It was Sir Hugo and a massively built, Gallic-faced man who could only be the anonymous Count. Sir Hugo looked surprised to see me, the Count dyspeptically unmoved. I rose to meet them
.
    ‘
Trenchard,’ said