Serpent in the Garden (28 page)

Who was he? If it was John Cobb, it posed more questions than it answered. Why had he bound and tied him? Was Cobb intent on killing him? If it wasn’t Cobb, who else could it be?

He forced himself into a sitting position. As he did so his brain seemed to lurch about, like a weathercock in a tempest. He felt sick with dizziness, but by biting hard on the gag, imagining it was his captor’s arm, he managed to steady himself.

He searched for some means to release himself. He needed only a scythe or a plow, or even a nail, to work his bindings free. But there was nothing save straw and hay and the embers of the fire below and a ladder leading to the floor.

After a minute’s reflection he shuffled forward to the top of the ladder. The instant he looked down his head began to swim again and he had to grip the ledge. The ladder wasn’t secured at the top. The gradient at which it descended seemed almost vertical; the floor lay some fifteen feet below; too high to jump without risk of serious injury. To add to his woes, the first two rungs of the ladder were broken.

Without dwelling on the risk, he took hold of the broken rung with his bound hands, propelled himself forward. He felt the wood sag under his weight, but he managed to get his boots on the lower rung before the wood came away in his hands. Letting it fall to the ground, Joshua pressed his body forward and grabbed at the side supports. The ladder juddered alarmingly from side to side under the sudden shift of weight. But it remained upright.

With his chin jutting forward to keep himself from overbalancing backward on the ladder, Joshua moved his legs caterpillar-like down a rung, then slid his hands down and began the whole looping process again. He had managed three or four of these arduous moves before he turned to look over his shoulder to see how far he was from the floor. As soon as he did so his weight was thrown back and the ladder pulled away from its resting place above his head. He threw himself forward again—but too late. For a long moment the ladder seemed suspended in midair and Joshua felt like some circus clown performing a balancing act for the amusement of spectators. The ladder teetered then lurched backward. Joshua lost his hold and pitched to the floor.

The ladder fell across the embers of the fire. He picked himself up, bruised, shaken, but triumphantly alive. His head wound had begun to bleed again, a copious flow that coursed down his cheek and neck. As he took stock of his injuries, he realized that, with his hands still bound, he would be unable to defend himself if his attacker should return.

He shuffled over where the broken rung had fallen to the ground and made his way back to the fire with it. In no time the fire took hold. He held up the flaming wood, and then moved some distance from the fire and sat down. With legs stretched out, he jammed the torch between his feet. Then he held his manacled wrists toward the flame. There was an acrid stench of burning jute and tar as he felt the heat searing his wrists. He pulled his hands away. The rope had burned through. His hands were free.

He untied his feet, wincing with pain. He rose unsteadily to his feet. Every step was agony, but with all the speed he could muster, he dragged himself out the door and began to heave himself toward the road. The distance was only fifty yards, yet it might have been fifty miles for the effort it cost him. He was feeble as an old woman, and negotiating the nettles and brambles had him panting and sweating and forced him to stop to regain his breath every few yards.

He was nearly at the roadside when he heard a rasping cough, followed by a gasping sound, as if someone was fighting for breath. He saw a man standing beneath a tree at the verge on the far side of the road. Between his spasms of coughing he was attempting to untie Joshua’s horse. His figure was lanky, his hair unkempt, his dark cloak spattered with mud. Joshua recognized him instantly, even though the last time he had seen him was in the dark. The cough gave him away. It was the man who called himself John Cobb.

In that instant Joshua forgot his injuries. Rage, unadulterated and sweet, brought him strength.

“You miserable, villainous devil!” he bellowed. “I’ll thank you to leave the beast alone, for he belongs to me.”

As Joshua lurched onto the verge and hobbled across the road, the man’s eyes widened in horror at the apparition caked in mud and blood, careering wildly toward him.

“Yes, villain,” Joshua said. “Your handiwork makes a fearsome spectacle, does it not? And I intend to see you brought to justice for it.”

“What do you mean?” said the man, taking a step back. “I have not encountered you since the other night, when I tried to retrieve my bag and you would not let me have it. And as my scars testify, it was you who injured me.”

“Then you confess you are John Cobb.”

“I told you so the other night, did I not? It was you who chose not to believe me.”

“Well, now I do believe you. And I will have some explanation.”

“Explanation for what? For being who I told you I was, or not being who you believed me to be?”

“Don’t try your tomfoolery with me. Tell me first, what is your purpose in skulking about the countryside assaulting innocent men such as I? And what were you about to do with my horse?”

Cobb looked guarded, but Joshua discerned none of the guilt he expected. His breast heaved, as if it pained him to speak. “I do not understand you, sir. My only interest was in my possessions. The bag you took—I must have it, for it contains something of great value. As you see, I am in dire need of a change of clothes and the little money I had is all gone. Everything I have left is in that bag.”

He looked at Joshua’s incredulous face, then sighed again and continued. “I don’t believe you are the type of man to withhold something from its rightful owner, but that is what you are doing. I cannot say I blame you for not believing me the other night. How were you to know I was not a footpad? I may as well confess to you that the reason I was standing by your horse was because I have come in search of you. I wanted to beg you again to return my bag to me.”

“How did you know the horse was mine?”

“I waited by the entrance gate to Astley and saw you go out. I didn’t want to apprehend you within sight of the house, where those who threaten me might see me, so I decided I would wait here for your return. I suppose I must have fallen asleep while I waited, for I never saw you pass by. But as good fortune would have it, when I came to, I saw your horse. I guessed you would return before long.”

Cobb’s candor didn’t convince Joshua one jot. Indeed, with all the fuss the rogue made over his bag, Joshua now began to wonder if the necklace might be contained inside. Yet he had searched it and found nothing.

“If you are willing to admit all that, why won’t you tell me honestly for what purpose you just now leapt on me, struck me on the head, and tied me up?”

“I swear to you I did no such thing.”

“Is not that shelter down the slope where you have been sleeping?”

“Yes. But I go there only at night. I am fearful that if I stay there during the day the owner might apprehend me.”

“Then if it wasn’t you, who was it that attacked me just now?”

Cobb looked toward the building, where smoke from the burning ladder rose in a plume from the roof. “I regret I cannot say. It may be that your assailant mistook you for me. My own life has recently been threatened. It wouldn’t be the first time another man had suffered in my stead.”

Joshua still suspected Cobb had attacked him—his mere presence seemed evidence of that—yet Cobb’s face and manner betrayed no sign of guile. In fact, he appeared genuinely confused by Joshua’s condition. Moreover, seeing Cobb again reminded Joshua how feeble he was. He looked barely capable of supporting his own weight, let alone leaping from a hayloft, beating him about the head, and hauling him twenty feet in the air.

“What do you mean when you say your life has been threatened?”

“Hoare was killed. I should have gone to that rendezvous.”

“How can you be certain the dead man was Hoare?”

“I will explain properly on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“As I said before, I am in the direst need. Without my bag, I have no money for the basic necessities of life. Give me your word you will return my belongings to me immediately and I will tell you everything you ask.”

There was a note of desperation in this plea that Joshua sensed was genuine. Moreover, Cobb was the key to this entire business, and without his cooperation it might be impossible to unravel. Joshua thought of his endangered reputation; the dead Hoare; the missing necklace. He needed Cobb as much as Cobb needed his bag. More, probably. He would be a fool if he didn’t appease him, for the time being at least.

“Very well,” said Joshua. “I will return your bag as soon as I am able. But you must answer me now about Hoare.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“I might ask the same of you. How do I know it wasn’t you who attacked me just now?”

“You have only to look at me,” replied Cobb. “I am not accustomed to this climate and contracted a cough from the day I arrived here. The last days have had an even more drastic effect on my health. I have been subjected to physical attack by you and others. In short, I am no match for you. Do you honestly believe such a thing would be possible?”

Joshua had little option but to give Cobb the benefit of the doubt and agree to his terms. What had he to lose? More if he didn’t risk it than if he did.

“Very well,” said Joshua, “These are my terms. I will give you sufficient money to make your way to London and have a good meal …”

“London?”

“Yes, London. Until I return the bag, you must stay at my lodgings off Saint Martin’s Lane. Saint Peter’s Court. Here’s the key. I will send word to the landlady. No one will trace you there and I want to keep you safe in a place where I can contact you when I need to. I will bring the bag to you as soon as I am able. But before you leave you must tell me what you know. Do you agree?”

It seemed ironic to Joshua that Cobb pondered this proposal every bit as warily as he had offered it. Neither of them trusted each other, yet both were forced to cooperate. Nevertheless, having shaken hands on it, Cobb needed little further prompting. He spoke in a rush, as though he feared being apprehended before he had finished.

“I arrived in this country three months ago. A London solicitor by the name of Bartholomew Hoare engaged me. He was pursuing a claim relating to a dispute over the will of a man by the name of Charles Mercier, who had lived all his life in Bridgetown, Barbados. Charles Mercier had left most of his possessions to his wife, who also resided on the island. But he had a daughter by an earlier relationship who lived in London. On his death she was bequeathed an important piece of jewelry—an emerald necklace. But Mrs. Mercier, being particularly fond of this jewel, resolved to ignore the bequest and keep it for herself.”

“But who is the daughter?” Joshua asked impatiently.

Cobb signed and shook his head. “I regret that is something I have never discovered. Hoare knew, but in the interests of his client’s reputation he never divulged it. In any case, that has nothing to do with it. Hoare was killed in error. I was the intended victim.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Hoare attended a rendezvous at Astley in my place and died as a result. A message was sent to me. I should have gone that night.”

“And the motive for wishing you dead?”

Cobb’s gaze shifted uneasily. “I don’t know. I presume it is my involvement in the dispute over the necklace. What other reason is there? I am only lately arrived in this country. I have no friends here, no family, and none but the most casual of acquaintances outside my profession.”

“Come, come, Mr. Cobb!” Joshua said, annoyed by his guile. “Your professional dealings are all very fine, but let us not beat about the bush more than necessary. I have read a certain letter from Violet to you which speaks of an association and implies you have been pursuing her.”

Cobb winced. “How did you find it? Hoare took it from me.”

“That is no concern of yours. Explain yourself.”

He looked down at his feet and sighed. “Since you know, there’s no reason for me to pretend otherwise. My involvement with Violet began some time ago, soon after the death of her stepfather, when I was first commissioned to reclaim the necklace. At that stage Mrs. Mercier said that she was keeping the necklace to hand it on to her daughter. My intention was, therefore, to inform Violet of the facts of the dispute, trusting her integrity would prevail and that she would persuade her mother of the folly of her ways. I explained that not only had her mother refused to abide by Mr. Mercier’s will and relinquish the necklace, but that she had also curtailed all payments to Charles Mercier’s daughter. I think Violet saw reason and felt pity for the girl. But Mrs. Mercier refused to discuss the matter with her. By then, having met Violet several times, I had fallen for her charms. Why, sir, tell me, as an artist, is she not quite the most beautiful creature you ever saw?”

“My opinion of Violet’s beauty is neither here nor there, Mr. Cobb,” Joshua said firmly. “What interests me more is whether or not you took the necklace. For I will tell you frankly I have been accused of the crime and unless I recover it soon, I may expect to be hanged and very probably dissected by some devilish surgeon.”

Cobb’s face dissolved into a picture of confusion. “What are you saying? The necklace is gone? I cannot credit it! Why did you not tell me so at once?”

“I fancied you knew. I assumed you had taken it. The thought even crossed my mind it might be in your bag and that you killed Hoare on account of it.”

“For what reason would I take it clandestinely? Have I not told you I am a solicitor, an officer of justice? It would be contrary to professional ethics to do so. And why would I kill Hoare? He didn’t own the necklace any more than I did.”

“And do not professional ethics preclude attempted robbery and clandestine meetings with the daughters of interested parties?”

Cobb waved an airy hand, as if the argument was too pathetic to warrant serious response. “That is different. I told you the reason for it. I love Violet. And I accosted you to retrieve my own property. It is quite another thing to purloin a priceless necklace and kill a man. In all honesty, I have not the faintest idea who took it, nor who killed Hoare.”