Serpent in the Garden (23 page)

How peculiar, thought Joshua, that when he had marveled aloud about the pinery, Lizzie had not uttered a single remark—had said nothing to imply she had any interest in horticulture whatsoever.

“You say the garden at Barlow Court
used
to outshine Astley’s. Has something happened there?”

Granger surveyed him closely. “Ask her about her brother, Arthur. What I know’s only gossip.”

Joshua dimly recalled Herbert mentioning Lizzie’s brother, though she had never spoken of him. “What do they say?”

“That he always loses when he plays. He has played unceasingly for the past four years, and lost a veritable fortune at quadrille. His father, William Manning, is the local justice in these parts and has all but ruined himself to pay off his son’s debts. He only keeps Barlow Court by the skin of his teeth and the goodwill of moneylenders. The place is falling down; there is not the wherewithal to maintain the house, let alone the gardens that were once one of the wonders of these parts.”

“I had no idea.”

“Aye, well, you might have noted Arthur Manning doesn’t show his face around here—there is talk of him being in Italy and suchlike. That’s all hokum.”

“How do you know?”

“I have seen him skulking about the grounds and in the vicinity.”

“Then why do they say he’s abroad?”

“To save face. He recently borrowed a large sum from Miss Caroline; money left to her by her mother, I believe.”

“Was she not foolish to hand it to him if she knew his reputation?”

“She was fond of him and his family, and was taken in. You can’t blame the girl. He told her he wanted the money to pay back his father for part of the debt; he took the money and never repaid a penny to his father.”

“Is Mr. Bentnick aware of this?”

“How should I know? If he is, he wouldn’t bring it up with William Manning or his daughter. To do so would bankrupt the one and shame the other to no purpose.”

“And what of the contemptible Arthur?”

“Still at Barlow, I presume. He has no money to go elsewhere.” Granger knelt down and began to embed the two pots in his hand in the steaming soil.

As Joshua took his leave, something struck him. “I thought you had saved the other damaged plants by your repotting,” he said.

“Some of the others overheated.”

“How did that come about?”

Granger frowned. Joshua sensed his reluctance to answer and thus paid careful attention to his reply. “As I told you before, it’s controlling the heat that’s the most essential part of rearing pineapples. This house is so large the temperature must be watched both day and night. There’s a boy by the name of Joe Carlton whose duty is to guard the place at night and make sure the heat’s neither too great nor too low. I doubt you know, but new bark can get so hot it bursts into flames.”

“What of this boy?” said Joshua.

“He fell asleep at his post. The pinery overheated. Some of the plants near the door survived; the rest perished.”

“When did this happen?”

“Five nights ago, or thereabouts.”

“The night before the man was found dead?”

Granger scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, now you mention it, it was that night. Funny thing, if he hadn’t fallen asleep he might have seen what happened, mightn’t he?”

“Mr. Granger,” said Joshua, speaking quickly, “what might happen if a man lay comatose in this greenhouse while it overheated?”

Granger looked over his shoulder at Joshua. “I hazard the heat might be sufficient to kill a man. Ask anyone who knows and they’ll tell you the same. I have heard greenhouses with similar methods of heating can burst into flames.”

“In other words, Granger, you are saying the corpse might have cooked to death?”

“Yes sir, that’s about it.”

I
N HIS ROOMS, Joshua turned his attentions to the portrait. If Herbert turned against him, and he couldn’t recover the necklace, he might never be paid for the Bentnick portrait, yet he could not restrain himself from tinkering with it, adding highlights and details and refining the background.

As he worked he considered Granger’s suspicions. All the descriptions he had heard of the corpse’s condition mentioned the stench, and until now he had assumed this was due to the man having vomited prior to death, which pointed to death from poisoning. But had the sweet smell also been caused by the effect of the heat on the flesh? He had reached no conclusion, nor had he fathomed a way to prove or disprove the theory, when a knocking on his door interrupted his musing.

“Come,” Joshua said at last.

A maidservant brought in a letter on a silver tray.

28th May 1766

Mr. Pope,

Perceiving you to be a man of reticence, I will take matters in hand in order to make headway. Before you left for Richmond you invited me to where you are staying, though in your embarrassment you never told me when or where to come. Today Mr. Bentnick came to look through your rooms and tells he sees no reason we cannot meet for an excursion on the river, or what about a stroll on the hill? Indeed, he could hardly believe me when I said I had heard of Richmond but never visited. He described the place most pleasantly and said I would enjoy a promenade in the gardens at Astley. So, Mr. Pope, I’ll be arriving on the midday stage at the Star and Garter, next Sunday. Will you meet me there, or will I walk to the house? Mr. Bentnick says it is only a short distance. If you’re not there I will ask directions and come for you.

Yours in expectation
,

Bridget Quick

Joshua’s spirits surged and then plummeted almost as quickly. Bridget was the flower he had determined not to pick. How could she tempt him thus? Today was Friday; she would arrive the day after tomorrow and it was too late to stop her. If he wasn’t at the Star and Garter, she would arrive at Astley. With so much to occupy him, he had no time for diversion, and in any case taking her boating on the river was something he would never contemplate. Nor did he feel inclined to take her for an excursion on the hill. Furthermore, he had no desire to explain why. The only thing he could think of was to meet her, then fashion some excuse—a make-believe malady, perhaps—to curtail their outing.

“Sir, I’ve two other messages for you. The first is from Peters, the first footman, who bade me tell you that the hall boy has run the errand you asked. The measurement you wanted was ‘five foot nine.’ That was all. He said you’d know what it meant.”

Five foot nine referred to the dimensions of the coffin. Joshua considered the other circumstantial evidence. The clothes in Cobb’s bag were those of a man well over six foot. Hoare’s appointment with Cobb on the afternoon of the death, his subsequent disappearance—Joshua’s theory that the body was Hoare’s now seemed highly likely. If so, an obvious suspect for Hoare’s murder was Cobb himself. Was he indeed the lanky assailant on the road, living as a vagabond, attacking passersby? But where was his motive?

“And the other message?”

“The mistress, that is, Mrs. Mercier, she bade me ask you if you would meet her at the pavilion on the northern border of the lake—I can point it out to you if you wish. She’ll be waiting for you.”

Hearing this, Joshua’s usual composure deserted him. He forgot Cobb, he forgot Hoare, he even forgot Bridget’s letter. He feared that Sabine had called him to this secluded spot to perpetrate some evil act of vengeance for the loss of her necklace. If only he had some information pertaining to the jewel that might deflect her wrath. And yet, apart from Violet’s letter, which he couldn’t show her—how would he explain his discovery of it?—how could he appease her? Could he express a vague inkling that the body she found was in some way linked to the necklace’s disappearance? That might lead to a discussion of Cobb’s and Hoare’s activities. She had a clear motive for wishing both Cobb and Hoare dead. They had threatened to take the jewel away from her. If Sabine had killed once to protect her jewel, to what lengths might she now go to avenge its loss?

Yet he had to face Sabine sooner or later. If they were alone, she might speak more freely than in company. And so he donned his buff coat braided with corn-colored silk, arranged his lace cuffs and cravat, and made his way to the pavilion with a heavy heart but his sights clearly set. He would do his utmost to placate Sabine while eliciting as much as possible. If his scheme failed, he would give himself up to whatever fate held in store for him.

JOSHUA had seen the lake from the drawing room windows and had heard that Mr. Lancelot “Capability” Brown had exerted himself most brilliantly in this portion of the garden. On reaching the shore he fully appreciated the reason for Astley’s sublime reputation. Brown had formed a gentle slope leading to a serpentine stretch of water fed by a stream at one end and with a small island disguising the limits at the other. Neat mown lawns studded with single trees and shrubs ran down to the shore. On the far side of the lake, clumps of beech and thicker woodland met the water’s edge, their reflections gleaming in splashes of dark and light on the still surface. A path meandered along the borders of the lake and led to the pavilion.

The building was set on a rocky escarpment overlooking the water and its fringe of trees. It was designed in the form of a rotunda—with a colonnade supporting a domed roof, and a circular seat in the middle—open to the landscape on all sides. Joshua climbed the slope, trying to ignore the anxiety that gripped his insides. To his surprise, Sabine, far from lying in malevolent wait, was nowhere to be seen.

Joshua paced, sat, then paced some more. As his eye skirted a small copse some twenty yards away, he thought he caught sight of the shadow of a figure skulking in the trees. Instantly he thought that perhaps this was Cobb. He focused intently, uncertain if in the glancing shadows and light he had merely seen a branch moving in the wind. He thought he caught another flash of movement and was on the point of careering down the slope toward it, but at that very second there was a rustle close behind. He wheeled round. “Mrs. Mercier!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t hear you come.”

“Good morning, Mr. Pope,” she answered softly. “My apologies for keeping you. I had something to discuss with Granger.”

“It is no matter, madam. I have been enjoying the view.” Her eyes were expressionless, unblinking, her mouth even, her brow smooth. Was this the face of a dangerous murderess? Or someone about to accuse him of theft? He detected no trace of menace.

“I daresay you have guessed why I summoned you here: the necklace is uppermost in my mind, Mr. Pope. I gather you have protested your innocence and that Mr. Bentnick has given you leave to try to recover it. You must think yourself very fortunate.”

Fortunate was the last thing he considered himself at this instant, but he refrained from saying so. “I assure you, madam, I am doing my utmost to find the jewel. God willing, it is just a matter of time.”