Serpent in the Garden (14 page)

He considered what he knew about the corpse. Sabine and Granger had both described it in some detail. Cobb showed no signs of an assault upon his person but he had vomited immediately before he died. Although Joshua was no expert in the field, it seemed probable that poison might account for this evidence. Were his patrons capable of such an action? Joshua remembered that Sabine’s father was a medical man and that Herbert took a keen interest in matters scientific. Furthermore, Herbert’s perfunctory treatment of Cobb’s death and his concealment of his meeting with him would make sense if he were somehow involved in it. But was he a murderer, an accomplice, or merely trying to conceal something for reasons unknown?

Just as Joshua asked himself these alarming questions, Herbert put down his knife and fork and dabbed his chin with his napkin. “By the by,” he said in a soft voice, “if you can make yourself ready quickly after the meal is over, I can offer you a ride to the Strand. I intend to go there myself on urgent business. I leave within the hour.”

Joshua muttered a few words of thanks and, having bolted his dessert, rushed to his rooms to gather his few belongings together. He collected his brushes, spatulas, pots of ground pigment, and bladders of mixed paint and stowed them in their mahogany carrying case. He went to the worktable, wherein he had secreted Sabine Mercier’s precious jewel in its case. He half opened the drawer and speedily removed his possessions: his watch and a ring left to him by his father, his pocket book and a silver snuffbox—both gifts from grateful patrons. He stowed these treasured objects in his coat pocket, then closed the drawer.

Remembering his promise to Sabine, he rang the bell in his room to summon a servant and sent him for Sabine’s maid, Marie. While he waited for Marie he took out his clothes from the closet and placed them carefully in his portmanteau. But five minutes later, the servant had yet to return. Joshua rang the bell again, pacing impatiently about his room as five minutes more ticked by. He scoured the corridor for signs of the servant. Joshua fancied he could hear voices down below. Anxious not to rile Herbert, Joshua proceeded downstairs. He would find another servant and give him instructions regarding the necklace.

No sooner had he reached the hall than the carriage drew up at the steps and Herbert bustled down the stairs, bidding farewell to Violet and his children, and a pair of pugs bouncing at his heels, as fulsomely as if he were intending to leave for America rather than an overnight trip to London. What should Joshua do? Perhaps the reason Marie had not come to him was that she was not yet returned from Richmond. In any case, even if she had, it would take him several minutes to ascertain where she was. Crimsoning at his dilemma, he turned round, looking for a servant who wasn’t occupied with doing something for Herbert, one he could despatch for Marie.

“Is something amiss, Pope?” said Herbert, observing Joshua looking unusually agitated as he tried to attract the attentions of the third footman, who was loading his bags onto the back of Herbert’s carriage with monumental slowness.

“Indeed, sir, there is something it is imperative for me to do before we leave, but I am loath to cause you the inconvenience of a delay.”

Herbert looked alarmed. “What on earth do you mean?”

“I sent a servant to perform the commission, sir, but I waited an age and he never returned.”

“Explain yourself properly, sir. What is it? It cannot be as grave as all that. There must surely be a remedy.” He was playing his role as a concerned patron to perfection.

“Mrs. Mercier entrusted her necklace to me, since she was in a hurry to leave for London before dinner. I was supposed to hand the jewel to her maid, Marie, immediately after dinner. I sent a servant for her just now, but she never came. I don’t want to leave without carrying out my undertaking.”

“Where is the necklace now?”

“Where I left it. In its box in the furthest corner of the drawer of the writing table in my room.”

“Ha! Is that all? Such a magnificent lather over such a trifling matter! Don’t concern yourself any more about it. The jewel will be perfectly safe.” Turning to Violet, he said, “Dear girl, it will be no trouble for you to go immediately to Mr. Pope’s rooms and retrieve the jewel until you can hand it to Marie for safekeeping.”

Violet regarded Herbert and then Joshua. For the first time Joshua was honored with a smile. “Of course, Mr. Bentnick. It will be no trouble at all. I will go directly. Caroline, would you be so kind as to show me the way to Mr. Pope’s rooms? I don’t believe I know where they are.”

T
HE JOURNEY TO London in Herbert’s carriage took barely two hours and proved mercifully uneventful. So it was that by six that evening, having sent on his bags to his rooms in Saint Martin’s Lane, Joshua Pope arrived at the door of his mistress’s lodgings.

Meg Dunn was an impoverished widow whom Joshua had met six months after the deaths of his wife and son. She was no substitute for Rachel, being at least ten years older than he (she admitted to forty), with a teenage daughter and no education or accomplishments to speak of. But her bed was warm and she was agreeable and clean, and furthermore she flattered him outrageously, something he recognized yet enjoyed. He was in the habit of calling upon her every Wednesday and Saturday, and since he was generous by nature, more often than not he brought a little present to cheer her. Today, as he was feeling hungry, he had stopped off at a chophouse and bought a meat pudding (one of Meg’s favorites) and a bottle of claret.

He mounted the dingy staircase to Meg’s rooms and knocked on her door, holding the pudding away from him so that the fatty juices seeping through the wax paper wouldn’t stain his coat. He waited. Where was she? She shouldn’t expect his two guineas a month if she was not ready when he called. He always came at about this hour and today was Wednesday, his day. He banged again. Hunger gnawed his belly. He craved the soothing effect of wine and Meg’s ministrations after such an eventful day.

Joshua thumped repeatedly on the door with such force he could feel the hinges groan. He was on the point of going home and sending Meg a curt note when he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps and muffled voices in the hallway below. He leaned over the banisters. He could see the top of Meg’s head (the bonnet was one he had given her) and the dark triangle of a male hat beside her.

“Meg,” he shouted out, “where are you? You’re late.”

Two faces tilted up: a pale moon surrounded by an aureole of fair hair and yellow straw hat; a florid, fat-cheeked orb framed with a gray periwig. “Mr. Pope? Is it you? I thought you were gone away,” Meg said. Her eyes were round with surprise but she flashed him a smile before jerking her head at her companion, who scowled and bolted out the way he had come.

“Who the devil was that?” Joshua said as she hastened up the stairs and embraced him as if she hadn’t seen him for a year. “Careful, careful. Mind my coat, mind the pudding.”

Meg murmured something about how inspired he was to know she was positively starving. Her companion was of no importance—a distant cousin of her dear departed husband’s who had come to call unexpectedly. She was delighted to have an excuse to be rid of him; the fellow was the most unutterable bore and had insisted on promenading her around Vauxhall Gardens for the entire afternoon. He had barely let her sit for a second and her feet were quite worn out. From the way she slightly averted her eyes, and the corners of her lips drew tight, Joshua knew that she was not being entirely truthful. But he was in no mood for a squabble.

After they had eaten the pie and consumed the wine, Meg walked to her bedroom. Through the open door Joshua watched as she unpinned her hair. It ran in a crinkly river of strawberry blond down her back. She was pretty for her age; her face was round and flowerlike, her skin so pale you could see the veins on her breasts. She removed her outer clothing and corsets; she was alluringly rounded, with a generous bottom, pendulous breasts, and slender ankles, which Joshua greatly admired. She returned dressed only in her chemise and petticoat and stockings and sat on his lap. She opened the ties of her chemise and pulled his head to her bosom. Joshua slid his hand beneath her petticoat and stroked the soft flesh of her thigh. “Meg,” he said urgently, “have you missed me?”

“Of course,” said Meg, removing his wig and placing it carefully on the side table before she began stroking his neck. “I always do, Joshua. You know that.”

He snuggled into the soft folds of her flesh and she sighed contentedly.

“That man you were with? He was not—”

“No, my dearest. I told you, did I not?” She was fingering the buttons of his breeches, prizing between his drawers, pressing and kneeding him as if he were dough she were shaping. Joshua became quickly aroused and soon ignored the distinct prickle of apprehension he felt. He knew he should press her further, warn her he expected fidelity (he was petrified of contracting the pox), chastise her even; but faced with imminent pleasure, he was helpless. He kissed her, feeling her tongue probe his mouth. He stretched out his legs obligingly while she pulled off his boots and stockings and breeches. He stood and kissed her again, this time more urgently, on her neck; then, dropping to his knees, he lifted the chemise to nuzzle the underside of her breasts and curve of her belly while she trailed her fingers across the back of his neck. He tucked one arm around her back and the other under her thighs and carried her off to her bed.

As he placed her gently down on the mattress, he remarked that the linen was in disarray and felt a small shiver of regret. He would have to confront her, or she would presume him to be a fool and continue to take advantage of him. But then, just as he opened his mouth to mention it, Meg caught hold of his shoulders and pulled him down on her belly. For the time being at least, he forgot everything.

•    •    •

AN HOUR LATER, Joshua kissed Meg farewell and returned at a brisk pace to his rooms in Saint Peter’s Court, a small alley off Saint Martin’s Lane.

The building where he lived was halfway down the court. It was well appointed, though no different from countless other brick-fronted, four-storey terraced houses in London with sash windows, three steps up to the front door, and a semibasement wherein the kitchen and the servants’ quarters were situated.

Joshua counted himself fortunate. His rooms were exactly what he needed—light and airy and spacious. He had moved here only two months earlier, after responding to a notice in the
London Journal
, believing that a change might help assuage painful memories of Rachel and Benjamin. The owner of the property was a fractious widow by the name of Mrs. Quick, who, on Joshua’s application, claimed she had been inundated with responses to her notice. Determined to secure the lodgings, Joshua mentioned that his wife had recently died (in the hope of sympathy), that he was a painter by profession (in the hope that she might know his name), and that because of this, his patrons—ladies and gentlemen of elevated status—would regularly call on him (in the hope she would be impressed). This last remark seemed to have the desired effect. No sooner had he let slip the names of some of his patrons—Herbert Bentnick; the earl of Lampton; the countess of Marl—than Mrs. Quick softened, and summoned her daughter, Bridget, to bring him a cup of tea.