Serpent in the Garden (13 page)

“I grant you were not to know it, but I intend to go to London this afternoon directly after this sitting. Let us proceed now without further delay, or I shall be late for my appointment.”

With no more fuss than that, she took up her pose, reclining on the seat with her head turned slightly away from him, so that the underside of her chin was visible. She wasn’t dressed as she would be in the portrait. The grand gown—stiff-bodiced, made of ivory sarcenet silk embroidered with purple and crimson flowers—currently clad a life-sized lay wooden figure that stood in one corner of Joshua’s painting room. Nevertheless she wore her precious emerald necklace, and as it caught the light, it burned an angry shade of green. The box in which she stored it was open on his side table. He made some small adjustments to her position. He raised her arm. He unfurled a lace sleeve to expose the flesh. He turned her head just so, as if he were arranging flowers in a vase. He tweaked the curtain half closed.

Then he returned to his easel. He had already completed the first stage and now he began the second, working up the composition, using glazes of color to define the way the light fell and shadows emerged and retreated over the face and on the curve of her arm and breast. He painted in silence. Chitchat while he worked was anathema to him. In any case it was obvious that Sabine Mercier was already annoyed and to talk would only risk rousing further irritation.

After a few minutes, however, she broke the silence, still holding her head perfectly still as she spoke. “Did you say you were out walking, Mr. Pope?”

He scarcely heard her. She coughed, reminding him of his manners, and he was forced to answer. “I went to Richmond, ma’am,” he said, applying a wash of bluish gray upon a layer of oyster.

“For what purpose?”

“None in particular, madam. Merely a desire to enjoy these beautiful environs.”

“And what did you do in Richmond?”

“There is a well-known posting inn, the Star and Garter. The gardens there are quite famous. I went for some refreshment and found it most pleasant.”

He glanced up, curious to see her reaction to the name of the inn. Her head was still perfectly immobile; her expression betrayed no more than the mildest curiosity at this information.

“Indeed? I have never been there,” she replied, “though if the gardens are pretty, perhaps I should.”

“They cannot hold a candle to Astley, ma’am, but I hazard you might enjoy them. While I was there I fell into conversation with the landlord, a Mr. Dunstable. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow. He chanced to mention that the man you discovered dead in the pinery had stayed there.”

Sabine’s expression remained unchanged and she continued to hold her position. Yet she had stiffened imperceptibly. There was a new gleam in her eye and a slight change in the timbre of her voice. “What a curious subject to ‘chance’ upon. What did this Dunstable say about the dead man? How did he know it was the same man who was dead in the pinery? Did you show him a sketch perhaps?” Her voice was soft yet laden with irony.

Joshua looked up. In the half-light her silhouetted profile was cast upon the wall. Her brow jutted forward, her nose had become a distorted beak, her chin had all but disappeared into the column of her neck; she looked half human and strangely predatory. Joshua shivered involuntarily.

“I learned the dead man’s name from Granger, after you asked me to question him on your behalf. His name was on a letter in his pocket. John Cobb.”

There was a pause as she digested this information. She turned. “John Cobb, did you say? Are you quite certain that was the name?” she said, as if she had never heard the name before.

“Indeed, ma’am, there was no doubt at all.”

“What else did you learn?” Her tone was now one of disinterest, as if she were humoring him with her questions.

“Naught save that he stayed for several weeks, and on the day of his disappearance, early the same morning you found him, he departed saying he would be back shortly. Only he never returned.”

“Is that all? Had he no callers? Did he mention no reason for being here?

Something in the detached persistence of her questions made Joshua wary. Or perhaps it was that lowering black shadow on the wall, or his natural discretion. In any event, he thought it prudent for the time being to play his hand close and not to mention Herbert’s visit.

“He had no callers that the landlord remembered. The trouble with such fellows is that, seeing all manner of people coming and going through their door, they forget the individual. Unless there is something wildly remarkable, faces merge into one, facts become blurred. Mr. Cobb may well have divulged his reasons for coming, but Dunstable has a feeble mind and remembers things no better than lace keeps you warm. Anything he knew has escaped him days ago.”

“And what of Granger? You say you spoke to him as I asked. Had he anything further to reveal concerning the dead man? Was there anything on his person to reveal his origins or intentions?”

Joshua knew he must tell her something or she would not be satisfied, and there was nothing to be gained by arousing her suspicion or her wrath. How much should he reveal? Certainly not that Granger suspected she knew the dead man. He looked at her surreptitiously and found that, though her head remained turned away as the pose demanded, she seemed to be watching him closely from the corner of her eye. Something in her expression was curiously expectant. He was aware in that instant of a peculiar sensation creeping upon him. He remembered the look of trepidation on Caroline Bentnick’s face the evening before in the drawing room. Was he being fanciful to sense an air of menace about Sabine Mercier? Caroline must have felt it, and so too now did he—although it wasn’t terror that she aroused in him so much as inquisitiveness. He wanted to discover what inspired her malevolent gleam. If he had any doubts before, he was certain now that she must have been involved in some subterfuge—otherwise, why ask him to discover what Granger knew, and why conceal the fact that she knew Cobb? A disturbing thought then occurred to Joshua. Given her questionable actions and reticence, did it follow that Francis and Caroline were correct in their suspicions? Was she involved in his death?

“Granger said little of interest, save that Cobb came looking for employment a few days ago, and as I told you before, that he found two letters in his pocket, which is how he learned his name.”

“What became of the letters?”

“He handed them to Mr. Bentnick.”

She seemed to consider this for a moment; she passed no remark, yet Joshua sensed she wasn’t entirely pleased to hear that Herbert had the letters. “Is that all? Did Granger read them? He said nothing of the contents?”

“Nothing at all, ma’am. He claims there was no time. He saw only the name.”

With that, mercifully, she seemed satisfied, and Joshua returned his attentions to his canvas. He found, however, that his concentration was shaken. Part of him wanted to return to his work, and part of him was tempted to probe her on the matter of her necklace and her curious conversation with Caroline Bentnick. In the end, the professional side of him won, although, as he painted, the idea that Sabine might have killed poor Cobb continued to disturb him profoundly. He told himself he was jumping to conclusions; there were countless other reasons why she might withhold the fact she knew Cobb; it didn’t mean she was a murderess. Nevertheless, his preoccupations affected his ability to paint. He was oddly agitated, daubing a little mixture of lead white and umber onto the canvas with unusual hesitancy.

Very soon after that, the clock sounded three. Sabine rose abruptly from her seat. “Mercy me, ’tis past the hour for me to go. I had meant to leave you half an hour ago.”

“Forgive me, madam. The fault is all mine for keeping you waiting.”

“I will not disagree with you, Mr. Pope. But there’s a further service you can do me if you will.”

“You have only to name it, madam,” he said, bowing decorously.

“Look after my necklace for me. You can use it for the painting if it pleases you.” She walked to the side table where she had placed the shagreen box, unfastened the necklace, and placed it reverentially on the silk lining. Her pupils were large and dilated, as though handling it brought her some secret rapture. “I must leave directly.”

“Forgive me, madam, but would it not be better for me to summon your maid?”

“Marie has gone to Richmond on an errand for me and will only return later this afternoon.”

“I regret, madam, that I am expected by Mr. Bentnick at dinner.”

“Never mind. Place it somewhere safe in the meantime. And after dinner, once you have finished painting it, pass it straight to Marie to put away. You do me a great service. I have not the time to do it myself, since I am already late in leaving for London, and nor do I want to take it with me. It is much too precious to risk losing to a highwayman.”

Joshua took the box and locked it in the drawer of his worktable. “Very well. Please do not worry about it. After dinner I will send for Marie directly and hand it to her,” he said.

Sabine thanked him and then, with a brief word that she would not be available to sit for the portrait until three days hence, on her return from London, she left.

As soon as she had gone, he placed his palette facedown in a trough of water to keep the paints soft and cleaned his hands. He then repaired to his bedchamber, removed his smock, donned a dry coat—sky blue silk with gray braid—and his periwig; and splashing a little rose water about his person to disguise the smell of turpentine and linseed, he went down for dinner. The morning room clock was striking the quarter hour as he entered. For the second time that day he was late.

I
T WAS ONLY as the dinner was well under way and the servants had loaded the table with the second course—large tureens of boiled pike and cabbage, and venison ragout—that Joshua made his excuses. His tone was grave, his expression suitably somber.

“Forgive me, Mr. Bentnick,” he said, “but since Mrs. Mercier is gone to London, I think it best I too return there for a day or two. The portrait is well advanced, but I prefer not to continue with it until I have both of you to sit. Painting one without the other may affect the delicate rapport between your figures and spoil the whole.”

All this, of course, was utter hogwash. He wanted to call on Bartholomew Hoare, the attorney who had visited Cobb at the inn. Nonetheless, Joshua’s smoothly delivered excuse was convincing enough. Anxious that nothing should impair the perfection of the painting, Herbert agreed to let him go without complaint. He too had much to occupy him. They thus cordially agreed that Joshua would remain in London until such time as he received word of Mrs. Mercier’s return, which Herbert estimated would be no later than the end of the week.

•    •    •

JOSHUA couldn’t help reflecting on Herbert’s reticence. Until today he had thought his patron harmless, his idiosyncratic interest in all manner of subjects endearing. And on what had he based this judgment? No more than a smooth, round face and placid expression and the opinion of others, who probably saw him only thrice a year. Was this a sound basis for his appraisal? Bearing in mind Dunstable’s testimony, he doubted it was. He began to wonder what lay behind the unruffled countenance. And the more he wondered, the more dubious he became. Perhaps something more than conviviality lay behind that courteous smile.