Serpent in the Garden (12 page)

Joshua bowed low, thinking what a miracle it was to find someone so considerate of his health. He opened the door and climbed in. He had scarce time to utter a pleasantry or even reiterate his thanks for her charity when he was assaulted by a battery of questions. Where had he been? Why had he gone there? What had he learned? To begin with, his replies were measured. Lizzie Manning was as good as a member of the Bentnick family. He assumed anything he confided to her would be relayed to them. And did he really want Herbert Bentnick to know he had been prying into Cobb’s comings and goings? Or that Herbert had been witnessed in some mighty disagreement with the fellow he claimed never to have set eyes on?

After Joshua had provided a modified account of the morning’s activities, she smiled knowingly. “That is all very well, but since there’s another two miles till we arrive at my door, you may as well speak candidly, Mr. Pope. Don’t you trust me? What really engaged you this morning?”

Joshua tried to conceal the astonishment he felt. Before he married he had enjoyed several close friendships among the female sex. Rachel and he had enjoyed easy conversation. Even his mistress, Meg, was something of a chatterbox, yet he was unaccustomed to females speaking so boldly and with so little pretence at decorum, and thus confronted he wasn’t entirely sure how to respond.

Lizzie must have sensed his consternation; she patted his arm comfortingly. “You will find me the very essence of discretion, Mr. Pope. Why, I have heard secrets as would make your ears tingle, yet I have never spoken a word to anyone.”

Any niggle of disapproval he felt was no match for her easy candor. Why should he not explain a little—after all, there was a possibility she knew something of relevance. He began, guardedly, to speak of his discoveries. He told her he had gone in search of the truth about the recent death in the pinery, because any man deserved as much when his death was so untimely and bizarre. Furthermore, Sabine had instructed him to find what he could about the dead man from Granger. According to Granger and Francis Bentnick, the man had been seen in the garden some days before he died. He was recently arrived from Barbados. Francis suspected there was some intrigue between the dead man and Violet; and Sabine might also have been acquainted with him, or so Granger thought. His name was discovered on a letter in his pocket. It was John Cobb.

“John Cobb?” echoed Lizzie. “Is that who he was?”

“Did you know him?”

“Know him? No, I didn’t. But I believe you are right to be wary of Sabine Mercier and her daughter,” said Lizzie, smiling brightly. “And your sentiments are most commendable. I agree with them wholeheartedly. How could Mr. Bentnick behave so callously toward a corpse in his pinery? Does he think it flew there like a dead leaf carried on the wind? Why, the very least he should do is to make some enquiries. I should write immediately and tell him so.”

“No, no, Miss Manning,” said Joshua. “I pray you will do no such thing. Why, don’t you see that if there is some subterfuge here, then it might be of a dangerous variety? Cobb is dead, perhaps even murdered, for what else explains the singular circumstances of his death? You might cast both of us in peril if you reveal too much to the wrong person.”

Lizzie Manning’s eyes opened round as sovereigns and she begged him to explain his suspicions. He replied that he had none. His only other research thus far was a conversation with Dunstable, the landlord of the Star and Garter, where Cobb had stayed for several weeks prior to meeting his end. Cobb had received several visitors—Bartholomew Hoare, a lawyer from London, and more intriguing, Herbert Bentnick, with whom he had had a violent disagreement. He had also received a lady visitor, who was described as fair, well dressed, and youthful of appearance, but her identity remained a mystery.

“Mystery be damned,” said Lizzie Manning, forgetting feminine propriety. “The woman must certainly be Violet. Who else do you think would fit the description? Certainly not Caroline or I.”

Joshua reddened. “You may be right,” he conceded, “but let us not forget there are sure to be other fair-haired beauties in the vicinity of Richmond. And there is nothing to say the visitor didn’t come from further afield. Violet is not unique in respect of her coloring.”

With this, Lizzie fell uncharacteristically silent. Joshua felt a strange sensation of anxiety and pleasure stir in his heart. Yesterday evening he had seen Lizzie’s sociable exterior. She had amused him, entertained him, bewildered him. Today he regarded her anew. Few women of her youth would take an interest in these events. The fact that she was concerned for the fate of the dead man—a stranger—the fact she had defended Caroline and viewed the Merciers with ambivalence, were touching testimony of her humanity, loyalty, and intelligence.

The carriage lurched up the rutted drive of Barlow Court and drew to a halt. Lizzie Manning, thought Joshua, wasn’t the mercurial flibbertigibbet he had suspected; she might be volatile, but beneath that external show lay a woman of discernment and surprising depths.

BARLOW COURT, the Mannings’ residence, was a stone Queen Anne mansion, set squarely in a small park, overlooking the river near Barnes. The view of the great swath of gray-blue water was one many people admired, although Joshua found it odious. While the footman opened the carriage door and dropped the step, Joshua descended from the carriage and stood in the rain to help Lizzie Manning down.

“Farewell, Miss Manning,” he said, offering her his hand. He would have liked to say something more, something that would mark his new esteem for her; moreover, he was as keen to sketch her now as he had been the previous night. He found himself tongue-tied with confusion. “And may I express my heartfelt gratitude for your stopping and permitting me to travel in your carriage,” he managed to murmur.

Lizzie looked surprised, yet she smiled sweetly at him. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Pope. It was no more than anyone would have done.” Here she laughed aloud, revealing her small, perfectly even teeth. “I confess I am much intrigued by our conversation and your enquiries, and as I said before, I believe you are right to make them. Thus, if you will accept, I have a proposition for you.”

“What manner of proposition?”

“I offer you my assistance,” she replied. Joshua was flabbergasted and clearly showed it in his face, for her expression turned a little cross. “You may think me useless but I have my purposes—in gaining entry where you could not, for instance, and in extracting confidences you would not. I am quite famous for wheedling out what is hidden and obscure. Ask anyone who knows me.”

Joshua wanted to say no. He was, in truth, uncertain even that he should be meddling in these matters. Lizzie’s candid gray eyes held him captive, yet he was not so entangled as to forget to question the reason for her determination. “You are an audacious young lady. Do you not fear putting your life in jeopardy? Consider Mr. Cobb’s fate,” he replied.

She tossed her head. “You have already mentioned it. Have you no stronger argument?”

“Suppose you arouse your friends’ displeasure? It may be that one of them is caught up in all of this. And since your father is the local justice, what would he say on learning of his daughter’s involvement?”

Lizzie snorted disdainfully. “Displeasure? What displeasure? I don’t give a halfpenny for any such thing. Caroline and Francis are the greatest of friends to me. I have no doubt of their probity. And since they have voiced certain doubts regarding Mrs. Mercier and her daughter, perhaps I may do them all a service if I aid you in discovering their involvement. As you point out, my father is the justice, so is it not appropriate that in his absence I assist you? I am sure my father would agree with me.”

“And how do you propose to proceed?”

“By speaking to Violet’s maid. She might know who this Cobb was.”

Joshua drew himself back and looked at her directly. “Have you no fear at all?”

“I could ask the very same of you, Mr. Pope,” she parried. “And while we are on the subject, may I suggest that you find some pretext to return to London and seek out Mr. Hoare, the attorney, and discover the nature of his business with John Cobb?”

She said this just as Joshua had remounted into the carriage and was preparing to slam shut the door. He leaned forward to grab the handle. Her offer of assistance had filled him with misgiving despite his growing regard for her. Now, however, he grew annoyed. A man of Joshua Pope’s standing didn’t expect to be treated with condescension or ordered about like a footman—especially by a girl of barely one and twenty years. Her charm was no excuse. He half wanted to tell her to take up a more suitable pastime—embroidery or watercolors, for instance—and leave him be. Yet, though it pained him to admit it, she had described precisely what he had determined to do as soon as he had learned of the attorney’s visit. Furthermore, her own resolve to question Violet’s maid would prove extremely useful. By virtue of her sex, she would stand more chance than he would of encouraging the maid’s confidence and discovering something significant. Had he not experienced firsthand her capacity for extracting confidences? Besides, she would never agree to sit for him unless he humored her. And so, regardless of his reservations, he agreed.

H
E WAS, as he feared, late for Sabine Mercier’s sitting. He found her waiting in his rooms. She was examining the unfinished portrait on his easel, having removed the cloth with which he always covered unfinished works. Her eyes seemed to study her figure and that of Herbert, still vaguely delineated, and scan the sketchy outline of landscape beyond. There was no guessing her opinion of what she saw. The expression on her face wasn’t one of pleasure or disapproval; rather, he judged it to be of remoteness, indifference even—as if the people in the portrait were strangers to her.

When she began to speak, however, there was no doubting her displeasure. “I confess, Mr. Pope, I am a little surprised to find myself waiting for our appointment close on three quarters of an hour. By now our sitting should be almost over, and you have yet to open your paint box.”

“Madam,” said Joshua, with a remorseful droop of his eyelids, “please accept my most profound apologies. I was caught in the rain, and Miss Manning offered me a lift. I never imagined it would take quite so long to drive there and back.” As he spoke he flung his sodden coat over a chair. Water began to drip off the hem and form a pool on the floor. He pushed up his sleeves and donned his paint-stained smock before moving briskly to his worktable. With practised ease he took out his paint box, removed the tacks with which he stoppered bladders of paint, and began to squeeze out miniature dollops onto his palette. He placed a nugget of glistening lead white next to his thumb and then, in a wide crescent, Naples yellow, orpiment, vermilion, red ocher, burnt umber, bone black, smalt, and Prussian blue, like gems waiting to be strung. This done, he drew small amounts to the center and mixed various shades, thinning the paint with linseed where necessary.

He was aware that Sabine Mercier was watching him closely from behind the easel. She sniffed the air, which was heavily scented with linseed, paint, and spirit, and shook her head.