‘Lives?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘He is here before you, my Lord.
His shock at my words was now palpable; but he said nothing. Then he rose slowly from his chair, and turned towards the window behind him. He stood there, hands held stiffly behind his back, rigid, silent, looking out across the gravelled entrance court. Without turning to look at me, he uttered the single word: ‘Proof!’
My mouth was dry; my body all a-tremble. For of course I had no proof. The evidence – incontrovertible, incontestable – that I could have placed before him only a week before had been taken from me, and was now beyond recovery. All I had was circumstantial and unsubstantiated assertion. I saw my future hanging by the merest thread.
‘Proof!’ he barked, turning now towards me. ‘You claimed you had proof. Show it to me at once!’
‘My Lord …’ I hesitated, fatally, and he immediately saw my discomfort.
‘Well?’
‘Letters,’ I replied, ‘in her Ladyship’s own hand, and a signed affidavit, properly executed and witnessed, confirming my true parentage. These documents corroborated the daily record of events left behind in my foster- mother’s journals.’
‘And you have these things with you?’ he asked, though he could see that I had come empty-handed, without a bag or case of any sort. I had no choice now but to make my admission.
‘They are gone, my Lord.’
‘Gone? You have lost them?’
‘No, my Lord. They were stolen. From me, and from Mr Carteret.’
Anger began to suffuse his face. His mouth tightened.
‘What in God’s name has Carteret to do with this?’
Vainly, I attempted to explain how his secretary had come across the crucial letters hidden in the writing-box left to Miss Eames, and how they had been taken from him when he had been attacked. But even as I spoke, I knew that he would not believe what I was about to tell him.
‘And whom do you accuse of stealing these documents, from you and Carteret?’ The question hung in the air for a brief moment as he regarded me, grimly expectant.
‘I accuse Mr Phoebus Daunt.’
Seconds passed. One, two, three … Seconds? No, a lifetime of agony. Outside, the partial light of late afternoon was giving way to the encroaching darkness. The world seemed to turn with infinite slowness as I waited for Lord Tansor’s reply to my assertion. On his next words, I knew, all would be won, or lost. Then he spoke.
‘You are pretty cool, sir, for a damned liar. I’ll give you that. You want money, I suppose, and think this cock- and-bull story of yours is a way to do it.’
‘No, my Lord!’ I jumped up from my chair, and we faced each other, eye to eye, across the desk; but it was not how I had imagined it would be. He recognized no evidences of consanguinity; he felt no tug of that indissoluble golden thread that should unite parent and child across time and space. He did not know me as his son.
‘I’ll tell you what I think, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, pulling back his shoulders. ‘I think you are a rogue, sir. A common rogue. And an unemployed one, too, for you can expect to be dismissed from Tredgolds with immediate effect. I shall write to your principal this very evening. And then I shall bring charges against you, sir. What do you think of that? And I’m not sure I shan’t have you horsewhipped out of my house for your damned effrontery. You accuse Mr Daunt! Are you mad? A man of agreed distinction, who enjoys universal respect! And you brand him a thief and a murderer? You’ll pay for this slander, sir, most dearly. We’ll have every penny off you, sir. We’ll have the clothes off your back, sir. You’ll rue the day you tried to get the better of me!’
He turned and pulled angrily on the bell-rope that hung just behind his desk.
I made one last effort, though I knew it was too late.
‘My Lord, you must believe me. I am truly your son. I am the heir of your blood for which you have longed.’
‘You! My son! Look at you. You are not my son, sir. You are barely a gentleman by the state of your appearance. My only son died when he was seven years old. But I have an heir, thank God, who is every inch a gentleman; and though he does not have my blood, he is everything I could wish for in a son, and fit in all respects to assume the ancient name that I have the honour to bear.’
At that moment a knock came at the door, and Hooper reappeared.
‘Hooper, show this – gentleman – out. He is not to be admitted to this house again, under any circumstance.’
I tried to hold his gaze, willing him to see the truth. But his eyes were blank and cold. I picked up my hat, and turned away from him. As I reached the door, I gave a brief half-glance back. He was sitting at his desk again, and had taken up his pen.
*[‘Said, and done’ (Terence,
45
Vindex*
I walked away from Evenwood for the last time, through the drizzle and the dark, stopping only once as I reached the Western Gates to look back at the many-towered palace that I had once dreamed would be mine.
