Serpent in the Garden (34 page)

S
INCE THERE WAS half an hour before the London stage was due to depart, they decided to leave the chaise and stroll across the grassy slopes of Richmond Hill to the stage post at the Star and Garter. The sky was ultramarine, with only a few strands of white cloud suspended low over the horizon. The town, with its red roofs and chimney pots and thoroughfares and dense clumps of trees, spread out like a map beneath them. The Thames, a great serpent of silver, cut its way between the habitations.

About fifty yards from the inn’s gate Joshua caught sight of two figures—a man and a woman—walking ahead in the same direction. Unthinkingly, he found himself gathering pace, and as he drew closer to the two figures, his suspicions were confirmed. The woman was small and slender, dressed in a drab gray cloak and plain straw bonnet; russet curls whipped about its brim, and the gentleman whose arm she held was unusually tall and handsomely clad, in a blue coat and breeches and a black tricorn hat.

“What has got into you, Mr. Pope? Are you determined to lose me?” said Bridget indignantly when she caught up with him. “Why do you stare so at that couple? Are you acquainted with them?”

“Forgive me,” Joshua said. “The suddenness of seeing those two scattered my senses. Unless I am very much mistaken that is Elizabeth Manning out walking with Francis Bentnick.”

“Am I to infer that you are offended because you entertained hopes in that direction yourself ?” said Bridget curtly.

“Certainly not,” Joshua said emphatically. “If I seem annoyed it is only because she must know I have things to say to her, and she certainly has matters to discuss with me, yet for the past three days she has avoided me—deliberately, I believe. Would you excuse me for one moment?”

Before she could remonstrate, Joshua had run ahead until he caught up with Lizzie and Francis. “Good day to you, Miss Manning and Mr. Bentnick,” he said, in mock gentility. “A thousand pardons for disturbing you. I trust you are enjoying your quiet promenade? What a delightful surprise to run into you.”

“Mr. Pope!” said Lizzie Manning, withdrawing her arm from Francis’s without a flicker of awkwardness. “The very man we wanted to find! I came to speak to you this morning on the subject of our drawing lessons. I was disappointed to find you absent. Caroline said you had gone out with Miss Bridget Quick, your landlady’s daughter. We were heading in the direction of the Star and Garter to look for you. Where is your companion? Is that her coming now?”

Bridget was red-faced and puffing with exertion. Mud had splattered the hem of her dress. After making brisk introductions, Joshua turned to Lizzie. “I haven’t time to talk now. Miss Quick has the stage to catch and I want to see her safely on it. However, I would be most grateful for a little of your precious time at the earliest convenience. Shall we say later this afternoon? I have something to tell you that concerns your brother.”

Lizzie’s sudden flush of astonishment, anger even, wasn’t missed by Joshua’s observant eye, and it brought him unmistakable satisfaction.

“My brother! What do you know of Arthur? Have you seen him?” she stammered.

He raised a quizzical brow and gave her an enigmatic half smile. “That, Miss Manning, is what I wish to discuss. But for now the subject must wait. Enjoy your promenade. Good day to you both.”

He could sense her fury but he ignored it. He raised his hat, took Bridget by the arm, and they walked briskly away toward the London stage.

W
ILDERNESS HOUSE, the home of Lancelot Brown, was an inappropriately named yet pleasant-looking redbrick building, situated a few hundred yards west of the Lion Gate to Hampton Court. The house was of modest dimensions and unremarkable style, with little in its outward appearance to suggest it was the home of a legend of landscape design. Were the wisteria and ivy clambering about its façade more cleverly pruned than others in the street? Were the topiaries of yew and box better shaped? Joshua’s untrained eye discerned nothing notable about them.

He had come here after a sudden burst of inspiration had struck him as soon as Bridget had stepped onto the London stage. Lizzie’s reaction to his comment about her brother had been most revealing. Joshua knew Arthur Manning was somehow embroiled in this business. The sound of his laughter at the mention of Cobb’s name still reverberated in his memory. He had a niggling feeling that one person alone could not have been responsible for recent events. Even if Cobb had killed Hoare, his feeble condition made it unlikely that he was responsible for the attack on Joshua at the barn. Nor did it seem probable he had stolen into Astley unobserved and removed the necklace. He was not familiar with the layout of the house. How would he have known where Sabine’s room was, let alone where she secreted her jewels? Arthur Manning, on the other hand, though he had no reason to wish Hoare dead, was strong, violent of temper, knew the house well, and had admitted he had entered Joshua’s room while he was asleep. And having ruined his family, Arthur was desperate for money. Since Joshua’s reputation rested on the necklace, finding Arthur was his first priority.

According to the housekeeper at Barlow Court, Arthur was not living at home. Was he hiding somewhere in the grounds of Barlow Court? Or was he lurking in the grounds at Astley? Joshua was in no mood to contemplate a search, which might take hours and expose him to another vicious attack. He had no wish to involve Granger, for that might cause gossip that would reach Sabine and Herbert. And in any case Granger had no knowledge of Barlow Court. But after pondering the matter for a few minutes more, a way to avoid all these obstacles came to him.

He recalled Granger telling him the gardens at Barlow Court and Astley had both been designed by Lancelot Brown and that the great man lived nearby at Kew. Who better than Brown to suggest plausible hiding places? Quite apart from helping him locate Arthur Manning, there was a chance Brown might remember some other relevant facts. And since Brown no longer had anything to do with either household, there was no danger that word of his visit would reach any of the other involved parties.

JOSHUA KNOCKED on the door to Wilderness House and was shown into a small hallway with four doors leading off and a wide flight of stairs rising to the floor above. A servant ushered him to a small library at the rear. The room was simple but comfortably furnished with a large desk, a folio chest filled with papers, and a pair of leather-upholstered armchairs. One wall was lined from floor to ceiling with books; the others were paneled in oak. Prints of sublime landscapes—parsley trees, craggy rocks, and mountains, with the occasional lake or coastal view for relief—were scattered about the wall. A portrait of the great man himself hung over the chimneypiece, and showed a bright-eyed, florid face with a nose of disproportionate grandeur and a smallish receding chin.

Having surveyed his surroundings, Joshua moved to the window, which gave onto a small walled garden consisting of a lawn, an apple tree, and a couple of rosebushes. In a niche at the end stood a life-size marble statue of a nymph holding a sheaf of flowers, with more flowers emerging from her lips.

Joshua knew Brown’s reputation was every bit as elevated as his own. Like him, Brown sat down at the table of every lord in the land. He had the ear of kings and queens and princesses. And how had he accomplished this feat? Not by painting with sublime inspiration, not by sculpting or architecture, or any form of artistic genius Joshua recognized. He had designed the gardens of palaces at Kew and Kensington and Windsor. He had gone farther than London—to Stowe, Petworth, Burghley, Warwick, Blenheim, and Alnwick. In each of these estates—and countless others, great and small, besides—his brilliant contribution came down to this: softening straight lines and formality with arbors and Elysian Fields and lakes and gentle green vistas, which resembled nothing so much as what was there before the formality was introduced. Thus as Joshua peered from the window the question that he asked himself was: can this be art?

“Behold the nymph Chloris transformed to goddess Flora!” said a booming voice that interrupted Joshua’s unresolved contemplation.

Joshua spun round to see a man, aged about fifty, jowly-faced, with bright boot-button eyes set at a soulful slant, offering him his hand.

Brown gripped Joshua with a firmness that made him wince. “Good morning, Mr. Pope. I have heard of you by reputation. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

“The honor is all mine,” said Joshua decorously. “And to return to your charming statue, I take it that Zephyr, who transformed the nymph into the goddess of flowers, is you!”

Brown laughed at Joshua’s wit and clapped him on the back. “What a delightful notion! The figure was given to me by one of my patrons. No one else has interpreted it thus. If only I could transform all my patrons to Flora I would indeed be the happiest man alive. As it is, I content myself with their gardens. Now, tell me, Mr. Pope, what brings you here?”

Joshua recited the story he had prepared. He was staying at Astley, to paint Herbert Bentnick’s marriage portrait, and had grown friendly with Lizzie Manning, who had recently done him a great favor. Since he had learned of her interest in horticulture, and pineapples in particular, he had thought to buy her two dozen pineapple plants. Would Mr. Brown object to advising Joshua where he thought it best to position the frames for this purpose?

“Pineapples, that most redoubtable of fruits!” Brown exclaimed. “The holy grail of every gardener in the civilized world. What would you say, Pope, if I indiscreetly let slip that in addition to my handsome salary as His Majesty’s master gardener, I am paid a fee of a hundred pounds for raising those luscious plants?”

“I should say it reflects the fact that you are held in the highest regard by His Majesty. And I should repeat what I have learned from Mrs. Mercier and Mr. Granger, the head gardener at Astley. Pineapples are the most fragrant and delicious of fruits. In form they are pleasing to artists and craftsmen of every medium. To grow the fruit in this climate challenges any gardener’s skill. Can we wonder that they are so coveted, or that anyone able to produce one for the table is held in the highest regard?”

Brown snorted. “That is hokum and we both know it. Fashion, Pope—frivolous fashion—that is what has put a hundred pounds into my purse this year and last year, and the one before that, and will do so in the future, I daresay. Please don’t imagine I believe it worth this elevated price. And what is the impetus behind this fashion, when there are cherries and apricots and peaches and grapes and apples and plums and pears galore that will grow with the minimum of fuss and taste equally delicious?”

“Man’s desire for novelty? Human curiosity?” answered Joshua. He was drawn by Brown’s jovial candor.

“No sir. It is the desire for the unattainable. Consider this, Mr. Pope. I give them lakes and copses as beautiful as any that existed in the kingdom of Flora. They applaud me for my achievements. Yet give them the choice and before we know it they’ll be demanding palm trees and bananas in place of oaks and elms and ash.” Brown burst into a gale of laughter, partly occasioned, Joshua suspected, by the astonishment on his own face.