Serpent in the Garden (30 page)

A
FTER Caroline Bentnick left him, Joshua meant to go in search of Bridget, but the potion he had taken was stronger than he knew. Loath though he was to yield to sleep, his head began to swim, his eyes grew heavier than a handful of sovereigns, and minutes later he lost consciousness.

He awoke, bathed in perspiration and filled with a longing for Rachel he hadn’t experienced for many months. For a time he tried to console himself with thoughts of Meg and their last encounter, but that only increased his sense of loneliness. It was morning. His father’s timepiece read just after seven o’clock. Outside, a chorus of birdsong echoed; inside, the house was silent. At some stage during the hours of his unconsciousness someone had undressed him. He was clad in his nightshirt and nightcap; his clothes were neatly folded on the chair. He had no recollection at all of being undressed but prayed it was the footman Peters or one of the other manservants and not Caroline Bentnick.

The cup with the dregs of the draft she had given him still stood on the night table. Propped against the cup was a bulky letter.

His first thought was that it must be a message from Bridget, whom he had abandoned to Herbert Bentnick. Fearing the letter would contain a reprimand for having left her after urging her to stay, he now began to fret. He was already in an awkward predicament, having sent Cobb to his lodgings, the wisdom of which now seemed undeniably flawed. He relied upon Bridget’s goodwill toward him to pacify her mother. He reached for the letter, full of dread at what it might contain.

Then he saw from the hand that the letter wasn’t from Bridget—it was from Lizzie Manning.

30th May 1766

Barlow Court, Richmond

Mr. Pope,

I gather from my housekeeper that you came to Barlow this morning and were somewhat put out to find me absent and unable to greet you. Forgive me for missing you. I went to question a nurseryman on the subject of pineapples. Forgive me also for quitting Astley without first apprising you of my conversation with Violet. The minute I finished with her I received a message from my father that made it imperative for me to leave.

That apart, let me recount my most interesting conversation. I took Violet for a stroll on her return from another trip to London for fitting her dress—has any garment in Christendom required such an excess of attention?

In any event, to the matter in hand. I told Violet we believed Mr. Cobb might still be alive and that
he
might be responsible for the disappearance of the necklace. You may rest assured I made no mention of the letters we discovered—how would I do so without incriminating you?

On hearing it wasn’t Cobb who had died but, we surmised, Hoare, her face seemed to brighten. Seeing this, I asked whether she was still fond of him, to which she replied rather sharply that there was nothing between them and, on the contrary, I should know there was someone else who now held sway over her feelings. I presume this “someone else” was Francis and that she did not say so for fear of incurring my wrath.

When I questioned her about the necklace’s disappearance, she declared I must have been recruited by Cobb to pursue her, for he had pestered her interminably for assistance in persuading her mother to hand over the jewel, but that despite all her efforts her mother was determined to keep it. I assured her I was entirely openminded on the subject of Cobb and the necklace, and that it was in her mother’s interest that we recover the jewel. With these reassurances she became calmer and told me a little of the history behind the necklace. The story was an intriguing one.

Charles Mercier, Violet’s stepfather, was a shipping clerk, a kindly, prudent soul, with a great antipathy to risk taking and gambling of any sort. His strange aversion resulted from an incident that took place when he was a young man, and he often spoke of the episode as a way of keeping Violet from the perils of gaming.

When he was aged no more than three and twenty he attended an assembly at the governor’s residence, where he was introduced to a newly widowed countess, a woman of substantial means who was lately arrived in Bridgetown to inspect her estates on the island. During the evening Charles Mercier engaged the countess in conversation, upon which she cajoled him to join her in a round of ombre. By some extraordinary quirk of fate, Charles, who as far as anyone knew could scarcely tell a jack from an ace, won every hand. His winnings included a promissory note from the countess for a valuable emerald necklace that had belonged to her family for centuries. Next morning she sent her maid round with the necklace—hoping perhaps that in due course she would have the opportunity to win it back.

The maid, whose name was Emma Baynes, was by all accounts a titian-haired beauty, and Charles Mercier, still heady with his successes of the previous night, was much struck by her. He asked her to try on the necklace so he could see it well displayed. When Emma opened the case and took out a necklace fashioned as a serpent, he was more than a little shocked. But then he laughed and proclaimed it most fitting, since the serpent of temptation had surely led the countess astray the previous night.

The meeting led to a romantic liaison in which Charles Mercier fell deeply in love with Emma Baynes. Meanwhile, much to the chagrin of the countess, he refused all invitations to play her at ombre—or any other game, for that matter. Three months later, by which time the disgruntled countess had virtually ruined herself with losses, she decided to return to London.

At about this time Emma Baynes discovered she was expecting a child. Charles Mercier immediately offered to marry her, but Emma—a foolish, headstrong girl—had other ideas. She detested the climate in Barbados and missed her homeland. Moreover, she had a sweetheart in London whom she believed to be so besotted with her beauty he would marry her despite her condition. Thus, she turned down Mercier’s proposal.

While he was greatly saddened by her refusal, Charles stood by his responsibilities. He promised to make arrangements to support the child and her mother, who would not be able to continue in service once the child was born. Emma never divulged anything of her hopes of marriage in London and agreed eagerly to accept his financial assistance.

All this took place fifteen years before Sabine married Charles Mercier. He was always scrupulously honest about the daughter he had never met. He told Sabine frankly of her existence and warned her that he intended to do as much for this child as for any legitimate offspring he might father with her. In the event, Sabine and Charles’s union was childless; and while Charles grew fond of Violet, and often called her his daughter, his pledge to remember his natural child was never forgotten.

Soon after their marriage, Charles showed Sabine the emerald serpent and told her the history behind it. Sabine, much taken with the unique beauty of the jewel, asked if she might wear it from time to time—a request to which Charles Mercier agreed. For the next ten years Sabine proudly wore the emerald necklace whenever the opportunity arose. As far as anyone knew, Charles never actually told Sabine the jewel was hers, but neither did he give her any inkling of his intentions to bequeath it elsewhere.

It was only a year ago, after Charles’s death, when the will was read, that Sabine discovered his decision to leave this most precious object to his illegitimate daughter. The reason he gave was simple. The necklace had been brought to him in the hands of Emma Baynes. Were it not for that jewel, his daughter would never have been born. In his eyes it was only fitting that she should have it.

It is not hard to imagine Sabine’s feelings of outrage and resentment. She had no qualms about flouting the will, arguing that it had been written many years ago, in the early days of her marriage, and that Charles had in the meantime changed his mind. Why else would he have allowed her to wear the necklace so frequently? Moreover, Violet had been more of a daughter to him than a child he had never seen. And she, Sabine, had been more of a wife than Emma Baynes. What claimant could possibly oppose her?

Soon after Sabine expressed her determination to hold on to the necklace, a Bridgetown attorney by the name of John Cobb contacted Violet and asked her to meet him, “over a matter in which you might be able to give someone less fortunate than yourself some assistance.” Violet, who knew only the bare rudiments of the dispute, agreed, perhaps a little naively, to Cobb’s request, never suspecting that he was acting on behalf of her mother’s adversary.

Cobb told Violet that Charles Mercier’s daughter in London was of similar age to herself; that Emma Baynes had recently died, and unless her daughter received her rightful inheritance, she would be forced to scratch out a living in the streets as best she could—an outcome that Charles Mercier had expressly intended to prevent. Did she not feel a sense of duty to do right by this poor girl whom she knew her stepfather had wanted to protect?

Violet listened carefully. Cobb was a tall, handsome fellow—being the focus of his persuasive charms was agreeable. Remembering how good her stepfather had been toward her, she felt a twinge of conscience. She went so far as to mention the matter to her mother, but Sabine was unbending. Her only compromise was to promise to make alternative financial arrangements if Emma Baynes’s daughter agreed to give up her claim to the necklace.

So Violet seesawed between the two camps, continually pursued by Cobb, whose every argument was refuted by her mother. How was she to know which of them was telling the truth? Before long, Cobb professed his romantic interest in her, promising that if she reciprocated his affection, he would do his utmost to work in her best interests with regard to the necklace. Perhaps the claimant would accept a financial settlement rather than the jewel itself.

At this point, Violet became visibly distressed. Tears coursed her cheeks as she declared that although she found him pleasant and handsome, she had no romantic inclinations in that quarter. She did everything possible to discourage Cobb’s attentions, writing to him and telling him to his face that she wanted nothing to do with him and nothing to do with the necklace if he was part of the bargain.

She had thought herself rid of the wretched man when she and Sabine left Bridgetown and moved to Astley. Thus you will understand how on the day she went for a stroll with Francis Bentnick and met Cobb wandering the gardens, she could hardly believe her eyes. In a turmoil of disbelief she told her mother of her encounter and begged her to give him the necklace so that she could live her life in peace—after all, why did she need the wretched necklace when Herbert could buy her a dozen more?

Sabine was unmoved and seemed hardly surprised at the news of Cobb’s appearance. She told Violet not to concern herself about the necklace. Herbert knew the details of the matter; he intended to call on Cobb and would advise her how to proceed.

I think it was at this juncture that Violet seemed to realize the ambiguity of her words. “Miss Manning,” she said, “the reason I said nothing of all this to you before was because I feared if I admitted to knowing Cobb, I might in some way incriminate my mother of some involvement in his death. The necklace has inordinate significance in her eyes; who knows to what lengths she would go to keep it? However, now you have told me Cobb is alive, and someone else is dead, there is no reason whatsoever not to tell you the truth, is there?”

I didn’t point out the obvious—that Hoare may have been killed because he was mistaken for Cobb; and that if this was the case, her mother might well be guilty. I did ask, however, if her mother had ever met Cobb. “No,” said Violet without hesitation. “Cobb knew my mother’s animosity toward him and kept out of her sight. To my knowledge she never did meet him.”

Surely, my friend, this is further corroboration of our most promising theory. If Sabine didn’t know what Cobb looked like, she could easily have killed Hoare by mistake. What do you think?

Yours,

Lizzie Manning

Joshua was as intrigued by the motives of Lizzie Manning as the content of her letter. She had written cordially, but there were questions left unanswered, instructions ignored, which spoke volumes about her true character. What had her father said to cause her to leave Astley so precipitously? What was so pressing about pineapples to make her go to a nursery the morning he arrived, and yet neglect to mention it? Why had she deliberately ignored his warning not to tell Violet that Cobb might be alive? The lengthy history of the jewel was all very intriguing, but much of it he had already learned from Cobb, and she had entirely ignored his request to question Violet closely about the day Joshua had left Astley. He wanted to know the details of how she had given the necklace to the maid, to see whether this agreed with the maid’s account. He wanted to know how reliable Violet thought the maid, how long she had been in their service, and would she be capable of theft? What had made her ignore these crucial instructions, forget there was a noose hanging over his head?