Serpent in the Garden (39 page)

“The key, if you please, Mr. Pope,” said Lizzie.

Inside was an eight-sided galleried chamber with a hole in the middle of the floor through which the basement was visible. A metal ladder fixed to the side wall appeared to be the only means of descending to this lower space.

Lizzie briefly explained the workings of the system as they had been related to her by Herbert. “The water of the lake is held back behind the arch by a brick parapet. When the level rises, during sudden storms, the water gushes over the parapet into the lower chamber, where it is carried off to the river by a system of underground pipes. At present the water level is below the parapet, but when it’s above it, the chamber fills with water.”

Joshua shivered, imagining what it would be like to be here with a torrent of water gushing over the parapet. Thank God for dry weather, he thought. He noticed a small metal door several feet above the basement floor. “What is that opening?”

“The door that was installed after the men were killed last year. During a storm the water penetrated through the basement wall in that spot, and found its way into the tunnels leading to the grotto. Until then no one knew the lake and grotto were linked. It was thought that Brown’s excavations might have weakened the rock and caused the tragedy.”

“I should descend to search for signs of your brother,” said Joshua reluctantly. Even though there was no water in the lower chamber, it was the last thing he wanted to do. He straddled the metal parapet and clambered down the narrow ladder. The floor tiles were slimy with algae and every now and again his boot slipped and he skidded forward. Tension made his head pound dreadfully. Nothing on earth could persuade him to pass an hour here, let alone a night.

To disguise these awful fancies he pretended to scrutinize the ground, as if he might find some sign of Arthur Manning. As he expected, he found nothing, and after several minutes, he climbed back up the ladder.

Outside, he felt his pulse subside. They stood for a moment on the grassy slope. “Lancelot Brown was certainly correct when he said that this would be a perilous place to hide. It doesn’t in the least surprise me we found no sign of your brother there.”

“Why not?”

“Because that door would be impenetrable without a key. If he had forced entry there, we would certainly have seen signs of it. I strongly suspect he is hiding in the grotto.”

“What makes you say so? We found no signs of him there either.”

Joshua nodded sagely, without a glimmer of guilt. “But having seen both places, instinct tells me it would be a far more likely place for him to hide. He might easily have climbed over the bars. The tunnels would be a convenient hiding place where he would run little risk of detection.”

For the first time she looked at him with something approaching interest. “In that case, why did we leave there without searching them?”

“We needed to come here in order to be certain. Moreover, I take seriously Granger’s point that it is dangerous to venture there, and so should you.”

She tossed her head and held her chin high, but some of the earlier hostility was gone. “What do you suggest we do?” she said.

“Prepare ourselves properly and formulate a careful plan to find him. The early evening, I hazard, would be the best time, when he is least likely to be prowling about the grounds or attempting to enter the house. If we return to look for him tonight, we could ask Granger to accompany us.”

“Then you believe we should confide the details of this matter to Granger?”

“Not necessarily. The less we divulge to anyone, the better. We will inform him merely that we need to search the cavern and request that in the interests of safety, he accompany us. Let him draw his own conclusion as to the whys and wherefores of our action.”

AFTER A HEARTY breakfast of fried sweetbreads, bacon, eggs, and parsley crisps, Joshua felt greatly restored. As soon as he was finished, he went outdoors again. He intended to go in search of Granger, to return his keys and to ask him to join them that evening on their return to the grotto. He was thankful to be alone, free from Lizzie Manning’s unsettling sulks and silences.

They had spent several hours together and he had not troubled himself to ask her about her visit to the nursery, or to take her to task about the way she had questioned Violet and told her Cobb was alive. He now recognized that her concerns for her brother and Francis influenced everything she said and did. That was why she had offered to help in the first place. How she answered his questions would be prompted by her own interests.

Joshua thought longingly of his morning with Bridget. Her straightforwardness and lack of guile seemed suddenly greatly desirable. Even her questions about Rachel had been unexpectedly consoling. He wondered, with a sudden pounding concern, how she was faring with Cobb and Crackman and when he could escape Astley to see her. Not before he found Granger and persuaded him to accompany him for this evening’s adventure.

Granger stood by a stone bench next to the fishpond. Seated on the bench was a woman Joshua didn’t recognize. She was plainly dressed in a dark blue gown and white linen bonnet from which tendrils of copper hair were visible. Was this his wife or betrothed? She seemed too finely dressed. Curiosity began to smolder. “Mr. Granger,” said Joshua, “forgive me for intruding in your'tête-à-tête, but I have come to return your keys and to make a request.”

“And what might that be?” Granger replied. The tightening of his jaw and a faintly perceptible tic in his cheek suggested he was put out to be disturbed.

Joshua shot a meaningful glance at his companion. “Perhaps I should return later when you are not so busy. I do not wish to inconvenience you or this lady by interrupting your conversation.”

“It’s no matter, I assure you,” said the woman, turning toward him. “I was just quizzing Mr. Granger on his duties. In any case I have to resume my work.”

“Are you a member of the household staff ? Forgive me, but I do not think I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” said Joshua niftily.

“This is Mrs. Bowles. She’s a seamstress from London, come to deliver some work and assist with other preparations for the ball,” said Granger. “And this, madam, is another visitor come to Astley, on a special commission. Mr. Joshua Pope, the portrait painter.”

Joshua bowed, thinking that Mrs. Bowles was a striking woman. Then he remembered instantly who she was. Violet had said she saw Herbert calling on her and he had assumed she was Herbert’s mistress. Lizzie had made some mention of her coming to deliver Violet’s dress. Presumably that explained her presence. Perhaps, since she was here, he should verify the precise nature of her arrangement with Herbert.

“Mrs. Bowles—why, yes. I have heard a little about you. Indeed, there’s a matter in which you might be able to help me. I met with a mishap two days ago and a good jacket of mine was torn. Might I call on you later this morning to see if you are able to repair it?”

Mrs. Bowles seemed a little taken aback, though whether this was from natural shyness or some other cause Joshua couldn’t discern. At any rate, her now crimson complexion only added to her allure. “I will be at my work all day, and it’s my habit to take my meals in my room, rather than in the servants’ hall. You may come whenever it pleases you, though I don’t promise I will be able to help you.”

“You may expect me within the hour,” responded Joshua with a small bow.

She stood, curtsied, and took her leave.

Joshua then secured Granger’s cooperation for an evening excursion by hinting that he believed Arthur Manning might be somewhere in the vicinity of the grotto. He explained that Lizzie was anxious to trace her brother and he wanted to assist. He refrained from mentioning that he thought Arthur might have taken the necklace. They agreed to rendezvous at nine o’clock.

M
RS. BOWLES worried Joshua. He knew why she had come; he knew she was expected (Violet had told Lizzie, who had reported it in her letter); it was her looks that rattled him. Her russet hair, her creamy complexion, the arch of her brow, those deep blue eyes—these were features not easily overlooked by any man, and an artist of Joshua’s imagination and sensitivity was affected by them more forcefully than most.

He remembered that Herbert had been seen paying a visit to her house. Was it, as Joshua first supposed, because she—a more radiant version of his own sweet and probably duplicitous Meg—warmed his bed, or was there something else?

Suppose Herbert had become involved with the claim for Sabine’s necklace. Suppose he had decided, as any besotted bridegroom might, to protect the interests of his future bride by calling on Cobb and trying to persuade him to drop the claim. Dunstable had confirmed Herbert had been seen arguing with Cobb.

If he had failed to deter Cobb, what might Herbert have done? Would he search out Charles Mercier’s illegitimate daughter directly and try to persuade her to drop the claim? Herbert said he didn’t know who she was, but he might be lying. There was the letter in his desk with its indecipherable signature. There was the letter to Sabine that her maid had shown Joshua—the letter arranging a meeting. And soon after his visit to Cobb, Herbert had been seen by Violet calling on the dressmaker.

Was it fanciful to think that Mrs. Bowles was Charles Mercier’s daughter? Was she the one Sabine had visited on her recent trip to London? She who had written the letters? Was that why Herbert had called on her? Three people might shed light upon the matter. Mrs. Bowles he intended to call upon within the hour. The others were Herbert and Sabine.

Joshua put his head round the door and scanned the morning room, but he found the place deserted. He walked through to the breakfast room, but apart from Peters, who was sampling a slice of sweetbread, and a couple of housemaids clearing the table of toast crusts, bacon rinds, and crockery, there was no one there either. He shook his head in disappointment.

Neither Herbert nor Sabine was anywhere to be found. Perhaps, Joshua reflected stoically, it was as well. If he did ask them outright about Mrs. Bowles, the question was likely to provoke them to drastic action. It would be better to speak first to the dressmaker herself: she at least had no hold over him.

It was now a little after half past nine—not enough time to call on Mrs. Bowles. Caroline had agreed to come to his rooms at ten to examine his wounds.

Joshua returned to his rooms and sat down on a large Windsor chair by the window. His eyes narrowed until they were no more than flinty slivers in his face. What had Mrs. Bowles and Granger been discussing? And Mrs. Bowles and Herbert? What was there between these two?

He unconsciously began to fiddle with his tattered bandages. They were still uncomfortably damp from the soaking he had given them in the grotto, and stained with rust and slime. He looked across at his easel, his palette, pencils, hog’s bristle brushes, the bladders of pigments ranked in their box, and felt a sudden craving to use them. Unless he could paint he was worthless.

The wait for Caroline Bentnick had become insupportable. Taking matters into his own hands, he whipped off the dressing from his head and examined his face in the looking glass. The wound was healing; air would dry it faster, and at least now he would be able to wear a wig if he desired. Then he turned his attention to his hands. Using a dexterous combination of teeth and the fingers of his left hand, he untied the knot on the right. He twirled his arm in a corkscrew gesture, watching the sodden bandage spiral to the floor like a dirty white worm. As the last layers peeled away they tugged the skin, but discomfort was outweighed by great relief when he saw that new skin had begun to form. He removed the bandages on his left wrist and found that similarly improved.