Serpent in the Garden (45 page)

Joshua was filled with shame that temporarily eclipsed any astonishment he felt over Bridget’s deception. How could he have not let Crackman know of his partner’s death? Thank God there was no wife or children starving on account of his thoughtlessness. “The letter arrived. My apologies for not replying, but that is why I was anxious to call on you. You are correct in your surmise that something dreadful happened to Hoare. It was he who was found dead in the pinery, not Mr. Cobb at all. Forgive me for my negligence in not informing you sooner.”

“Hoare is dead?” Crackman shook his head forlornly. “Poor fellow. I suppose I knew something of the kind must have happened.” He put down his pen and looked out the window, and repeated, “Poor fellow, poor fellow.”

Joshua looked at his boots. He deserved a scolding for his insensitivity. This was the first time anyone had expressed any vestige of emotion for poor dead Hoare, and Joshua was glad to see it. Nevertheless his head was in a state of confusion. Bridget had told him Crackman was dead. But why? What had possessed her to say such a thing? Before he could ponder this properly, he had to extract the name of the claimant from Crackman.

“I know this is a difficult moment, sir. But I remain convinced your nephew’s death is bound up with the dispute over the necklace. Therefore I have to ask: who is the claimant for the necklace?”

Crackman subjected Joshua to a baleful glare. “I will tell you what I told Miss Quick. The claimant was anxious to preserve her anonymity. That was why I did not write it in the letter I sent you. But in view of recent events there is no longer any reason to conceal her name.” He paused as if weighing his decision. “Her name is Nell Lambton.”

“Nell Lambton.” Joshua repeated the unfamiliar name, for which he had searched so long, as if he were fearful of forgetting it. “And where may I find Nell Lambton?”

Crackman scrutinized Joshua, weighing his words. “For several months she was a resident of a hovel near Smithfield. The street’s name is Cap Alley.”

“And now?”

“Now she is no longer there.”

“Then I ask again, where may I find her?”

Crackman gazed unblinkingly at Joshua, which gave him the feeling he should have known the answer. “She lies in the paupers’ graveyard at the church of Saint Swithin’s nearby. Shall I spell it out, Mr. Pope? She died ten days ago. And since she had no family to take up her cause, the case is closed. And incidentally, I will never be paid.”

“Died?” reiterated Joshua. “How?”

“How?” Crackman gave a mirthless laugh. “Let me tell you what I learned from the constable. Ten days or so ago, her landlord made his way to the vile hole she rented from him and found what he thought was a bundle of rags. When he looked again, he found beneath the rags a body so emaciated from want it was naught but skin and bone. She had died, sir, though whether from hunger, thirst, or disease, only God knows.”

“Dead!” said Joshua, scarcely comprehending.

“Aye, dead, sir.”

He thought immediately of Sabine’s rendezvous. Was this why she had been so surprised to find her necklace gone?

“Was there anything suspicious in it?”

“You know as well as I that no one gives a jot for those without means. How many like Nell die in abject misery with none to remark their deaths, I shudder to think. But what I will say, as God is my witness, is that Mrs. Mercier has much to answer for. Indirectly it was she who killed Nell. If she hadn’t refused to adhere to her husband’s clearly stated will, Miss Lambton would have lived in respectable lodgings, with enough to eat, as he intended, and I believe she would still be alive today.”

Joshua shook his head. He could hardly take in the fact that after all his endeavors to trace Nell Lambton, she had died before he found her. She could have had nothing to do with the murders or the theft of the necklace or its return.

The answer lay elsewhere.

O
UTSIDE THE WINDOW the city clocks began to chime. It was half past eleven; unless he hurried he would miss the midday stage. With a brisk word of thanks to Crackman, Joshua fled downstairs to his waiting chair, which he directed to take him to the Eight Bells in the Strand as speedily as possible.

He made the coach with just minutes to spare. It was only when he was ensconced in his seat that he allowed himself to contemplate Bridget’s part in all of this. He was rocked by her trickery. How crass he had been, how blinded by his own stupid assumptions. He had taken for granted that there was nothing underhanded in Bridget’s eagerness to please him. Even this morning, when he sensed that there was something she was holding back, he had put it down to her feelings for him. And yet now it transpired that her fondness was feigned, her motives not at all what he had assumed. But what had possessed her to lie about Crackman and pretend he was dead?

He had yet to come to any coherent conclusion when they entered the village of Hammersmith and the impending storm that had threatened for two days began to break. Large heavy gouts started to fall with gentle regularity but were soon pelting down with torrential force. Within half an hour the road was reduced to a quagmire of mud and rubble, and every unfortunate pedestrian they passed was drenched. Then there was a violent clap of thunder: the startled horses reared, then slipped, and the carriage lurched alarmingly. The stress of the sideways wrench proved too much for the front axle, which gave an audible crack that sounded like a gunshot, and snapped; the next thing Joshua saw was a wheel careering off like a spinning coin into the overflowing ditch.

The postilion clambered down from his mount and went off to recover the wheel and summon a carter to make temporary repairs. As soon as he returned, all the passengers, Joshua included, were forced to leave the carriage and wait forlornly on the verge, while the rain drenched them all and the heavens entertained them with crashes of thunder and lightning such as Joshua had rarely witnessed.

When at length they resumed their journey, the conditions had deteriorated still further. The road was now a brown sheet of whirlpools and swirling mud that in parts had merged with the river Thames, so that it was almost impossible to see where one began and the other ended. The poor driver could make only the slowest of progress to avoid being washed away. Joshua’s morbid fear of water was uppermost in his mind. His predicament was worsened by many of the occupants of the carriage, who began sobbing and wailing and praying to Lord God Almighty to save them. He clutched the edge of his seat, gazing at the rivulets of water coursing the window, wondering if he was about to be drowned, and if not, how long Lancelot Brown would wait.

Two hours late he strode into the parlor at the Roebuck. Taking off his sopping hat and coat, he shook a small river of water to the floor. He glanced about but saw no sign of Brown. He approached a man serving ale behind a counter, introduced himself, and asked whether there was a message for him from Mr. Brown.

“Aye, sir,” returned the barman with a nod. “He guessed you were held up by the bad weather, and since he wished to call in at Astley, he bade me tell you to follow him there.”

Joshua found himself now in a dreadful dilemma. Brown had proceeded ahead, knowing nothing of Joshua’s banishment or his recent speculation concerning Lizzie Manning. Even if Lizzie was innocent, there was Sabine to consider in the light of her visit to London and the death of Nell Lambton. Not only that, Brown’s ignorance might very well lead him into real danger. Joshua firmly believed his unfortunate conversation with Caroline on the terrace had prompted her murder, and he dreaded being the unwitting cause of another death.

He had to act. He stood by the fire in the front parlor of the Roebuck Inn. As the steam from his sopping clothing rose all around him, a scheme emerged in his brain. He would approach the house on foot, make contact with Granger, who he knew would be somewhere in the gardens, and after impressing upon him the need for discretion, ask him to send word to Brown to meet him in the gardens. In due course Joshua could decide if he should send word via Brown to inform Herbert of his recent conclusions, or if he dared request a meeting face-to-face.

Joshua wasted no time in renting a horse. The whole of Richmond Hill was swathed in mist and cloud; the trees lining the route were bowed down with the weight of water, and the road was strewn with sticks and leaves and stones washed down by the deluge. Nevertheless the weather was easing. By the time he was a few hundred yards from the gate of Astley, the rain had dwindled to no more than a persistent drizzle.

Joshua dismounted and circumnavigated the boundary wall until he came to a garden gate. To one side stood a small cottage, the sort of dwelling a country yeoman might inhabit, nestling amid an orchard of fruit trees. A boy holding a sickle was sheltering beneath one of them. Ignoring him, Joshua walked past to the cottage door and banged upon it. There was no reply. He knocked several times more and, when there was still no answer, peered in through the windows.

The scene within was unremarkable: a small parlor, comfortably furnished with a couple of upholstered armchairs and a mahogany table, the walls hung with engravings of country houses set in parks, a couple of painted landscapes, half a dozen botanical plates; a portrait of a lady hung above the fireplace. The lady was round-faced, with a determined set to her chin and full mouth. Her hair and eyes were as dark as a Gypsy’s. She was painted in the act of drinking tea from a porcelain cup. The cup was delicately painted with a coat of arms on its side. Joshua peered at the portrait critically and concluded it was of surprising quality; the pose was original although it lacked animation. He guessed from the style of brushwork it was the work of Thomas Hudson or possibly, depending on its age, of his master, Jonathan Richardson.

Next door was a kitchen hung with a few iron and copper pots. Pieces of printed crockery sat on a dresser rack by a large range, and a stone sink was set in an alcove at the back. There was no sign of life in either room.

Joshua strode purposefully back to the lad. “I would like to tether my horse,” he said rather impatiently. “I take it neither you nor the occupants of this dwelling would have any objection?”

“No sir,” said the lad, screwing up his eyes to keep the rain from his face as he looked up at him. “There’s no one here for the time being but me, and I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

“Here’s a penny for your trouble,” Joshua said, handing him a coin. “Is this your father’s cottage?”

“No sir,” said the boy. “I’m Joe Carlton. The cottage belongs to Mr. Granger, the head gardener at Astley.”

It occurred to Joshua that he could send the boy in search of Granger and wait here, where there was no danger of him meeting any member of the household. But he was too impatient to wait.

He tied his horse to the fence and entered the grounds of Astley through an arched wooden gate. He found himself in a grass walk bordered on either side by lilac, cherry, and walnut trees. The entrance to the kitchen garden was via a small gate set into another, slightly lower wall a short distance to his left. Joshua walked through the gate and headed toward the head gardener’s office, where, owing to the inclement weather, he hoped to find Granger sheltering.