Serpent in the Garden (18 page)

“I suppose my face must have shown what had happened. Before I could say a word in response she hastened to her dressing table, where she found the empty box. She swooned again, and would have fallen to the ground, only this time I caught her, and wafted salts under her nose to revive her. You can imagine, Mr. Pope, how witnessing the distress of one so dear to me has gravely troubled and, indeed, enraged me. I am not by nature a distrustful man, yet you must comprehend why the shadow of suspicion falls upon you. Mrs. Mercier entrusted you with the necklace. As far as we know, you were the last person to see it. Neither Violet nor Caroline opened the box, and nor did the maid.”

“But the necklace is a sizeable jewel. Could they not tell from the weight and feel of the box whether there was something inside?”

“Violet says she cannot recall thinking anything about the weight. Caroline never held the box. The maid says she thought she felt the necklace move inside it. But can we trust the maid? She is such a muddleheaded simpleton—how reliable is her testimony?”

“If the maid remarked nothing wrong when she put the jewel away, that surely indicates all was in order. On your own testimony, the box has been in Mrs. Mercier’s dressing table since then. Anyone in the household—nay, even an intruder—might have taken the necklace. Of course, I comprehend the reason you summoned me and I will comply with your request to look into the matter until Justice Manning’s return. But you must confess the case against me is purely circumstantial.”

Herbert thumped his fist on the desk. “Are you bargaining with me, Mr. Pope?”

“No sir. I am merely putting the matter to you as I see it, in a rational manner.”

“Then as proof of your probity and honest reputation, I trust you will have no objections if I pay a visit to your lodgings and conduct a thorough search of them.”

“You are welcome to look wherever you choose,” he said, eyeing Herbert steadily. His tone was quiet and respectful, but the set of his jaw revealed his refusal to succumb. “For I have absolutely nothing to hide, either there or anywhere else.”

C
LEARING HIS NAME became a matter of the utmost urgency to Joshua Pope. Unless he proved his innocence, his reputation could be irredeemably sullied. He might even lose his livelihood or his life. Herbert might claim to believe in his innocence, but Joshua sensed that he still viewed him with suspicion, and that at any moment Herbert might turn against him. Knowing all this, Joshua had no desire to accompany him to London. Astley was where the necklace had disappeared, where his reputation had been cast into doubt. It was also where Cobb had died. His work was here.

Joshua handed Herbert a letter addressed to Mrs. Quick, telling her to allow Herbert into his rooms and to leave him undisturbed for as long as he wished. He shuddered to think what she would make of such instructions.

Back in his room, he sat down by the window overlooking the garden. It was a fine afternoon, and the sun slipping low had stained the plants and trees and even the pinery with a soft, rosy light. There were no gardeners about, only a few sparrows hopping on the gravel path, and an occasional swallow swooping low for a drink from the fishpond. He recognized the tranquillity of this scene, yet it brought him not one iota of peace. With Herbert gone, he felt exposed to the unpredictable whim of Mrs. Mercier.

On first hearing of the necklace’s disappearance, Joshua had hoped that it was no more than a matter of simple misplacement. But given his suspicion that the necklace was the property at the center of the dispute between Sabine and Cobb, the disappearance so soon after Cobb’s death could hardly be a coincidence. Yet the two events did not fit neatly together. If Cobb had been killed to preserve the necklace, why had the necklace disappeared after he died? Was there more than one person interested in possessing it?

This strenuous exercising of his faculties wore Joshua down. He yearned for a familiar face. He wanted Rachel, his poor dead wife, or if not her, some other friendly companion with whom he might confess frankly and openly his suspicions and fears. He wished he had Meg nearby to console him. And yet he had no one. He tried to shrug off this self-pitying thought. He told himself firmly that despite the shadow into which he had been cast, he should thank God that thus far Herbert seemed willing enough to give him a chance to redeem himself. No sooner had this thought occurred than it was followed by a more sobering one: Herbert’s faith would rapidly dwindle without some tangible progress.

What should he do? His instinct was to press the maidservant, Marie, about what she remembered of the day Violet had returned the necklace to her. Who, strangers or otherwise, had been in Mrs. Mercier’s rooms since then? Had Marie remarked any disturbance? But if he went to find her, there was every chance he would run into Sabine, something he wished to avoid for the time being.

Just then Lizzie Manning fluttered into his mind—he had barely thought of her at all until now—and a desire for her company overcame him. This was not from any romantic inclination. Lizzie held no physical allure for him and her tendency to bossiness was irksome, yet her merits were also clear. She was quick-witted (if somewhat naive in the ways of men) and a doyenne in the art of conversation. More important, she knew better than did Joshua the characters involved in this mysterious affair. She had even struck up an acquaintance with the maid, Marie.

He wrote a brief note to her, describing the necklace’s disappearance and Herbert’s account and declaring his innocence. He requested her aid in speaking to the maid and asked her to come immediately to Astley on whatever pretext she could muster, and gave the note to Peters, the first footman, to dispatch. He then hung his sword about his belt—only a fool ventured out on foot after dark without his weapon of defense—buttoned his coat over it, and set off for the short walk to Richmond, to spend an hour or two at the Star and Garter.

THE LANDLORD, Dunstable, remembered Joshua the minute he set foot through his door. Joshua ordered a jar of stout for himself and another for Dunstable.

“The artist returns, I see,” he said with a deep guffaw. “Have you discovered the whereabouts of your friend Cobb? He still has not been for his belongings.”

Joshua winced. He had forgotten that he had never disclosed that Cobb was dead. “I still follow the trail. But yes, I do believe I draw closer.”

“What do you say, sir? Don’t beat about the bush. Have you found him, yes or no? I see from your face you hold something back. Let me assure you, Mr. Pope, the reason I ask his whereabouts is not to hound him. He has paid his dues right enough. No, all I want is simply to return his belongings. They are naught but a hindrance to me now.”

Joshua reddened. “In truth, Mr. Dunstable, I must tell you—indeed, I should have done before—the reason for my interest in Mr. Cobb. Sir, he is dead. He was found lying in the pinery at Astley not five days ago. His death is most suspicious and my enquiries are prompted by my belief that any man, even a scoundrel, deserves better than to be murdered in a strange place and buried with no more regard than a dead dog.”

The landlord’s eyes opened round as a pair of billiard balls. “Murdered? Are you quite sure of it?”

“There is naught but the smallest of doubts in my mind, and it grows more minuscule with each day.”

Dunstable swallowed a gulp of ale uncomfortably, then licked his lips. “In that case,” said he, “tell me, what should I do with his bag? I have no wish to be held responsible for a murder on account of having his belongings under my roof.”

“Do not trouble yourself about that. Give the bag to me. When I return to London I will hand it to his attorney—the same Mr. Hoare who you told me was here to see him. Hoare was acting for Cobb in a family matter and will surely know the next of kin, to whom these possessions should rightfully be passed.”

Dunstable seemed happy enough to comply with this suggestion. He excused himself to go and retrieve the valise. While Joshua waited he drank another tankard of ale, settling himself by a small window overlooking the back of the inn. It was growing dark. The gardens were all but invisible; the stables quiet, horses bolted inside; vacant stalls had been left with doors ajar and there were no grooms to be seen. He gazed at the deserted yard, wondering vaguely what Cobb’s bag might contain. Curiosity rather than philanthropy had prompted his offer to take Cobb’s bag to Hoare. The bag might yield a clue as to Cobb’s fate. A letter from Hoare perhaps.

At this point he remembered the letters Granger said he had handed to Herbert, the letters he had found in Cobb’s pocket. Perhaps Hoare had written one of them. What had become of them? Joshua remembered Herbert tearing up one letter and stowing the other in the writing desk in the drawing room soon after Cobb was found dead. He had given no explanation for his actions, yet Sabine had treated them as if they were nothing out of the ordinary. Joshua tried to recall Herbert’s expression as he dealt with the letters. Had he seemed furtive? Disconcerted? Angry? He well remembered the dismal set of his face, the slump of his back—he had looked sad, despairing even—yet Joshua’s recollection was that there had been no attempt at all to hide his actions, nor had he seemed enraged. Plainly the letter he had saved must be a communication of some significance. It was surely worth searching the bureau to discover what. And with Herbert now in London searching Joshua’s rooms, what better opportunity could there be?

Dunstable soon returned with the leather travel bag, initialed with the letters
JC
, and gave Joshua strict instructions to pass it straight to the attorney Hoare, and to mind nothing go astray. Joshua assured him that he would meddle with nothing; upon his honor, he would deliver the bag as soon as he was able. Then, as a joking afterthought, he added that the only thing that might stop him was if he met a highwayman or footpad along the way.

Dunstable’s expression turned grave. “The road’s no safer than any in these parts, and highwaymen are a common scourge. But since you are armed and a strapping fellow, God willing you should have little to fear.”

And so, brimming with ale and courage, Joshua doffed his hat to Dunstable and set out for Astley. It was a fine, clear night with a half-moon to light his way. Cobb’s stout bag was heavier than he had foreseen and very soon his arms felt as if they had been wrenched from their sockets. He longed for a carriage or a cart to pass so he could beg a ride, but he met no one save a solitary carter traveling in the opposite direction.

A quarter of a mile on, he reached Marshgate and the bottom of Richmond Hill. The town was now behind him and he strode past the gateposts to Sir Charles Littleton’s mansion and very soon was out in open country. Now he was on a flat piece of ground and had only the ominous silver band of the Thames for company. He was relieved when the road turned away from the river’s edge. Dense undergrowth now bordered either side of the verge.

Suddenly a man stepped out of the shadows. Joshua nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden apparition. The man stood no more than ten feet in front of him. His face was partially obscured by the darkness; nonetheless, Joshua could clearly discern his lanky build, his disheveled, unwashed appearance, and the wild look in his eye.