Serpent in the Garden (15 page)

Bridget Quick was a large, comely girl with freckled skin, a bouncy bosom that strained at her corsets, and glossy auburn hair, which she usually wore braided and coiled beneath a linen cap. She had curtsied demurely at their introduction, rattling the teacups on their tray precariously as she did so. Joshua chivalrously assisted her, carrying a table and placing the tray on it. He remarked as he did so to Mrs. Quick that should he be fortunate enough to be offered the lodgings, her daughter’s charms would surely draw his clients as much as his pictures. He noticed Mrs. Quick’s proprietorial eye on her daughter; he saw, too, the animated sparkle in Bridget’s jade green eyes. Mrs. Quick had instructed her daughter to pour them all a second cup and offered Joshua the rooms at the very favorable rent of twenty guineas a year.

SINCE Joshua’s arrival, the household had been arranged as follows: Mrs. Quick and Bridget occupied the ground floor rooms; the maid, Kitty, and a manservant, Thomas, a lad of sixteen, had rooms in the basement, adjacent to the kitchen and coal cellar; Joshua resided on the first and second floors. His parlor was a sunny, south-facing room, furnished with a writing desk and two armchairs, a dining table, a looking glass, a table clock, and an Indian rug. The walls were sound enough to display his work and he had hung a selection of his finished portraits that had yet to be varnished and despatched. Double doors led through to a painting room, facing north, which was full of his easels, canvasses, pigments, brushes, pencils, bottles of linseed, varnish, and spirit. Upstairs was his bedchamber and a closet.

Mrs. Quick, as Joshua soon discovered, was a woman of forceful character. Her reputation for ill temper made most people wary of her, although there were a few who claimed she was charitably disposed, despite her vociferous gripes. Thomas once told Joshua that Mrs. Quick had snatched him at the age of ten from the clutches of a sweep who forced him to climb pitch black chimneys, dressed in rags and with no shoes, and fed him on scraps that you wouldn’t give to a dog. Kitty had been taken on in the middle of winter when she was found out in the gutter, starving and half frozen to death. Thomas claimed that if anyone was in dire need they had only to knock on her kitchen window to be given a bowl of slops. Joshua nodded but privately took these tales with a hefty pinch of salt. He had yet to see a glimmer of charity in her, and rather found her as unyielding as a gatepost. She counted every candle stub and charged him extra for coal or a second helping of mutton broth. If the Sunday visitors disturbed her when she was feeling under the weather, which was often, she was never too ill to come upstairs to castigate him.

Changes in routine, particularly spontaneous ones, upset her profoundly. Thus, when Joshua reached the door of his lodgings that night, Mrs. Quick poked her head out, like a spider alerted to some unfortunate insect just caught in its web. She was dressed with characteristic severity, in a gray high-necked gown with a plain white collar. Her cheeks were hollow, and owing to an unfortunate lack of teeth, her mouth was tight, like a purse pulled in by a drawstring. Her hair was scraped into a large plain bonnet with long lappets, so that not a single wisp was visible. In a voice as harsh as a crow’s, she declared herself most displeased by his sudden return. He might have had the manners to send word, in which case she would have instructed Kitty to light the fire in his room. He had nobody to blame but himself if the bed was damp and he caught his death.

Joshua looked a little sorrowful at this greeting, keenly aware how different it was from the one he would have received had Rachel and Benjamin been alive. He replied politely nonetheless. He hadn’t known till late this afternoon of his return. As for catching a chill: the weather was clement, the month was late May, not February. She should not worry herself on his behalf, but if it was convenient and she could send Bridget up with a little supper on a tray, he would count himself most fortunate.

Bridget’s manner toward him had warmed significantly in recent months. Occasionally when she looked at him meaningfully as he came and went, it was on the tip of his tongue to ask her how she was, or where she was going, or if she would care to sit for him. But then he remembered Mrs. Quick’s irascible temper and how much he relied upon her favorable opinion. His rooms were pleasant, and after so much turmoil in recent months the thought of moving again was insupportable. Mrs. Quick saw him as the means of effecting useful introductions for her daughter. He had no wish to disabuse her.

Two hours later, filled with cold mutton and hot ale, he retired to his comfortable bed. He fell asleep still tingling at the pleasant memory of Meg, glad to be among his own possessions and familiar faces, and telling himself that the menace he had sensed at Astley was probably no more than the product of idle imaginings.

•    •    •

WHEN Joshua awoke the next morning his resolve to pursue the matter of Cobb’s death was fully restored. He rose early and dressed with customary care in a buff wool coat with chocolate-colored braid, brown breeches, and a black silk cravat. Having breakfasted modestly on rolls and marmalade without allowing himself to be distracted by Bridget, who lingered by the parlor door, he strode out in the direction of Gray’s Inn Lane.

He was going to find Mr. Hoare, the attorney who had called on John Cobb at Richmond. He recalled that Lizzie Manning had suggested this visit, soon after the idea had occurred to him. She had promised to discover what she could from Violet’s maid, and he wondered if she had been as good as her word.

He found the place easily. A small tarnished plaque to one side of the door announced that the premises belonged to Messrs. Enoch Crackman & Bartholomew Hoare, Solicitors at Law. He entered a narrow corridor leading to a winding stair. Most of the windows had obviously been recently bricked in—a result, no doubt, of the exorbitant glass tax. The few that remained were blackened by grime and soot. The air smelled musty, even though the day was fine and warm. At the top of the stair he groped his way along another dank passage toward a door at the far end. The office within was no less dingy than the corridor without. In the dim light he could see every surface was littered with sheaves and scrolls and pamphlets of paper, and large leather-bound tomes, some open, some closed, were scattered about over floor, tables, and desks. Several young clerks sat amid this sea of paper, writing furiously with their dusty quills or consulting the pages of the books. At the rear of the office was a large partners desk. Hunched on one side of it, immersed in writing entries in a vast ledger, was an elderly gentleman.

Joshua went over to him. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “My name is Joshua Pope. I come in search of a Mr. Bartholomew Hoare. I believe he has his office here?”

The man raised his head slowly and regarded him. As a portrait painter Joshua made it his business to remember every oddity of physiognomy, but he was unprepared for this gentleman’s features. His face was long and narrow, with a curved, beaklike nose and a strongly cast jaw. But it was his eyes that took Joshua aback. One was heavy-lidded, deep set into his skull, and the palest of blue; the other was a void, a hollow socket with the skin stretched across and stitched over. Joshua started, blinked, then resisted his urge to stare by looking at the papers on the desk. The man seemed to take his embarrassed surprise quite in his stride.

“You believe correctly. There is a Mr. Hoare who conducts his business here. I am his senior partner, Enoch Crackman. Have you an appointment?”

“I regret I have not. Is one necessary?”

“It might have helped, for the gentleman you desire to see is not here. He has been away on business the past few days—longer than expected. On what matter did you wish to consult him? Perhaps I may assist you? Bartholomew Hoare is my nephew.”

“My business concerns Mr. John Cobb, a gentleman recently arrived from Barbados. I believe Mr. Hoare visited this gentleman at an inn in Richmond a few days ago.”

Crackman swallowed thoughtfully before replying. “What is it to you if he did?”

“I wish to discover the nature of his business.”

“Does it concern you?”

“In a manner of speaking. I am acting for Mr. Cobb.”

Joshua handed him a calling card. The old man looked at it, holding it so close to his good eye it practically brushed his cheek. Then he guffawed and shook his head. “Forgive my asking. Your reputation is well known to me. I believe you have recently painted an uncle of mine. The portrait hangs in Lincoln’s Inn.”

“Judge Lessiter?” guessed Joshua, seeing a vague resemblance now in the cast of Crackman’s jaw and the aquiline curve of his nose.

“The very same. The perceptiveness of your portrait I thought quite remarkable. I don’t know how you managed to convey his eloquence, sagacity, and wit with canvas and paint, and yet that is exactly what you did.”

Joshua blushed as he always did at such accolades. “You are most kind. The judge was a delightful man. He had much to occupy him yet he was unfailingly patient.”

“And he was greatly taken with your depiction. Took me to see it.” Crackman halted and looked intently at Joshua again. “Nevertheless, I regret, Mr. Pope, I must ask this. Do you have any letter of authority from Mr. Cobb?”

Joshua shook his head.

“Then I am sorry to say you have wasted your time. Whatever the business between Messrs. Cobb and Hoare, it is a matter of confidence. Mr. Hoare wouldn’t tell another soul without good authority or reason, and neither will I.”

“Perhaps, sir, I can persuade you. I tell you this, and there are plenty to vouch for the truth of it. Mr. Cobb is dead, in mysterious circumstances. I believe he may have been murdered. I am attempting to seek the truth of his death. Are the interests of justice not reason enough to talk to me?”

“Cobb is dead? Are you quite certain?”

“As certain as I can be. I was there when his body was discovered in a pineapple house at Astley House, Richmond. You have only to write to Mr. Herbert Bentnick at that address to verify it.”

“Astley House, Richmond? That too is a familiar name. And when precisely did Cobb die?”

“Three days ago.”

The old man scratched his wispy pate with the tip of his quill. His single eye gleamed like a night-light in the dark. “Unless I am very much mistaken, Mr. Hoare was last in this office four days ago. He mentioned he had an appointment out of town. Quite possibly it was with Mr. Cobb, for he’d visited him earlier in the week, as you say.” He turned to address a young clerk. “Posner, look up Mr. Hoare’s engagements for three days ago, would you?”

Posner briskly did as he was asked. After some minutes he affirmed that Mr. Hoare had indeed made an appointment to call on Mr. Cobb at the Star and Garter, Richmond, at three o’clock in the afternoon.

“On what matter?” interposed Joshua. “I am sure, after all I’ve revealed, you could give me some indication, Mr. Crackman. And in doing so you would be doing poor Cobb a great service.”

There was a long pause while Mr. Crackman scrutinized Joshua and regarded his visiting card again. “I see no reason to withhold the information, bearing in mind that Cobb is dead and you are a highly respectable person. I own I do not know the full story, for the case wasn’t mine. I can tell you, however, that their business involves a matter of inheritance—a disputed property.”

“But Cobb had recently arrived from Barbados, had he not?”

He nodded briskly. “The other party involved in the dispute had also come to England from the same place.”

“Do you know the name of the other party?” Joshua hazarded it must be Sabine Mercier, but he wanted verification.

“I do not recall, but I am perfectly willing for Posner to conduct a search of our records. I will inform you in due course of any discoveries.”

“I would be most grateful, sir.”

Crackman coughed, and twirled his quill thoughtfully. “I have a very pretty granddaughter, aged about five or six. I have always wanted her painted. I did have a profile done by Hayman, but it does not do her justice …”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Crackman, of course I will do it, just as soon as I have finished at Astley.”

“And the charge?”

“Shall we say six guineas for a head and shoulders?”

Crackman smiled with delight.