Serpent in the Garden (40 page)

He picked up a bladder of lead white, unstoppered it with a tack, and squeezed a little on the palette. He did the same with red lake, vermilion, and yellow ocher. Then he turned the easel toward him. It was some days since he had looked at the composition, and as always after such an interlude he saw it with a useful objectivity. His first reaction was entirely unexpected.

Sabine reclined indolently upon her seat, her head thrown back to gaze up at Herbert. The arm with which she held out the pineapple to Herbert was bare below the elbow. One foot was thrown forward as if she were on the point of reclining; the underside of her chin and neck were cast in deep shadow. The serpent necklace coiled about her neck glittered with green lights. Her eyes, heavy-lidded, large, and dark, were redolent of mystery, passion, promise. Herbert, standing behind, hand on hip, looked down. His eyes did not meet hers. They rested instead upon her pale bosom, and on the jewel at her throat. There was warmth in them and something more besides: an expression of possession and adoration.

He had represented with great fineness and detail the costumes, the skin tones, the rich embroidery, and the folds and creases, the bravura landscape. The likenesses of Sabine and Herbert were so animated that they almost breathed with life. And yet, though he recognized his accomplishment, he didn’t feel the sense of achievement he might have expected. Instead he felt distracted; his eyes were inexorably drawn to the necklace—as if that rather than the couple were the focus of the painting.

Joshua wondered whether he should alter Herbert’s pose, so that the couple’s eyes did meet, or adjust his expression so that it was riveted less on the necklace, or darken the necklace so that its highlights were less prominent. In the end, however, he decided against tampering. In all probability it was his own preoccupation with recovering the necklace that distorted his view of his work. No one else would interpret it in the same way.

Joshua took up his palette and delicately added further details to the background, which was all that remained to be finished. But despite his earlier urge to paint, his work failed to hold his attention. This morning’s adventures—finding the wineglass and meeting Mrs. Bowles with Granger—made him sense that he was on the brink of a great breakthrough. But he couldn’t help wondering what Bridget was learning in Saint Peter’s Court. Joshua still clung to his belief that Cobb was probably innocent of involvement in Hoare’s death, but until he knew who was to blame, there remained a doubt he could not entirely banish.

Bridget had promised to call on Crackman, to try to discover the identity of the claimant. The fact he had heard nothing was a source of disappointment. Of course, if his hunch was correct and Mrs. Bowles was the claimant, he could resolve the matter here and now. And all being well, this evening he would find Arthur Manning and recover the necklace. There would then be nothing to prevent him returning to London tomorrow to rejoin Bridget.

He glanced at his timepiece. Ten o’clock had come and gone and still Caroline Bentnick had failed to appear. He dimly recalled that there was something she wished to tell him concerning the day of Hoare’s death. Whatever it was it would have to wait.

He took up the torn and soiled brown coat that he had worn on the day he was attacked and asked the third footman where he might find Mrs. Bowles. The footman escorted him to an attic staircase leading to the garret, where most of the servants’ quarters were situated. He found her in a pleasant, though stiflingly hot, room. The sloping ceiling was punctuated with a shuttered window that gave a bird’s-eye view of the kitchen garden, the pinery, and Richmond Hill beyond. Glancing through it, he saw it was practically the same view he had from his rooms below. The sky was burdened with lowering clouds, but at the moment he entered the sun broke out briefly and spears of sunlight radiated across the room in a dazzling fan, which disappeared almost instantly.

A gown of pale blue satin embroidered with seed pearls in a trailing vine pattern stood in one corner of the room on a tailor’s dummy, which reminded him of the lay figure he used for his portrait. Mrs. Bowles sat on a stool nearby, busy at her craft, apparently stitching a pair of crimson velvet gentleman’s breeches. She had removed the bonnet she wore earlier and put on a small linen cap, with lappets hanging on each side of her face. He caught a glimpse of strands of russet hair beneath the cap.

As before, Joshua was struck by Mrs. Bowles’s radiance. He recalled the story of the maid, Emma Baynes, who had delivered the jewel to Charles Mercier and so bewitched him that she subsequently bore his child. Was this the child Charles Mercier had fathered? Or was she no more than Herbert’s mistress? She was certainly lovely enough to distract the most upright of men.

He cast about, looking for any scrap of paper containing a sample of her handwriting. If it were the same hand as he had seen on the letters to Herbert and Sabine, her identity would be confirmed. There was nothing visible, though he noticed a closed book on the table next to her. Was this an order book perhaps?

Joshua coughed. “Mrs. Bowles, forgive my intrusion. I have brought my coat. It was badly torn in a misadventure that befell me two days ago. I wondered if you could repair it.”

She took the coat and began to finger the rips to the sleeve and lapel. “I hesitate to say I can mend it so well it will be as good as before. And certainly I am too occupied just at the moment …”

“I would not expect it,” said Joshua. “I see you are kept busy by the demands of the Bentnicks.”

“It’s the reason I have come here, sir.”

“Is it often that you are called here from London by the family?”

“No sir. Indeed, it’s the first time.”

“Did Mr. Granger tell you anything of the recent events that have taken place here?”

“A little.”

“Perhaps, then, he also mentioned that I have been ordered to look into them?”

“He did say something of the kind, but since it all took place before my arrival, I do not see what possible help I can be to you.”

“Madam,” said Joshua, in a more authoritative tone, “what you know of the family may have a bearing on these events, even if you are unaware of it. Thus I would ask, how did your connection with the family come about?”

“I come originally from a village near Luton in Bedfordshire. The Bentnicks are acquainted with the Seebrights, owners of Beechwood, a large estate in the county. When I ventured to London, after the death of my husband, Frances Seebright recommended me to all her friends in the vicinity, among them Jane Bentnick. I presume that after Mrs. Bentnick’s death, Miss Caroline must have passed my name on to Mrs. Mercier and her daughter.”

“That was most fortunate for you.”

Mrs. Bowles smiled wryly. “Miss Violet, I may say, is a most demanding customer; she insisted I personally deliver the gown I have made for her, in case any alterations are necessary. Now that I am here, Mr. Bentnick requests that I adjust his breeches, for he complains they have always been too tight.”

The name Beechwood was familiar to him.

“Tell me, Mrs. Bowles, a little of your background. Are your parents still alive?”

“Both my parents are dead, sir.”

“Lately so?”

“My father died when I was an infant; I never knew him. My mother perished two years ago.”

“Was your mother ever in service?”

“She worked as cook to Mrs. Seebright.”

“She never went abroad with her?”

“No sir.”

It occurred to Joshua that though her replies did not entirely tally with what he knew of Charles Mercier’s daughter, there was plenty in her family history that fit. But if she was the claimant for the necklace, she was an accomplished actress, for she gave no flicker to indicate that she had other reasons for being here. If only there were a sample of her handwriting to be seen, he could resolve the matter instantly. Joshua decided to press more roughly. “Are you personally acquainted with Mr. Bentnick?”

She looked up from her work and her complexion seemed to turn a shade paler. “I am not sure what you mean, Mr. Pope. I have told you the nature of my acquaintance with the family. Mrs. Mercier and her daughter are my customers. Mr. Bentnick has naught to do with it. I am adjusting his breeches as a favor; under usual circumstances his tailor would do it.”

Joshua stood up. He was puzzled by her vehement tone. He knew there was more to her relationship with Herbert than she admitted, and yet she hadn’t the demeanor of a liar. He moved a little closer to her and stood next to the table on which the book was resting. “You told me about your dealings with the ladies in the Bentnick family, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t worked for the gentlemen. I should like to know, does Mr. Herbert Bentnick often avail himself of your … services … in town?”

The pause and the look he gave her made his meaning as clear as springwater. She stopped her work and raised her eyes to his. As she did so, he saw her expression transform from puzzlement to shame. Her hand began to tremble; she bit her lip. “I am not entirely sure of your meaning, Mr. Pope, but you may rest assured there has never been anything improper in my relations with Mr. Bentnick, nor indeed with any one of my patrons.”

“Then may I be so bold as to ask why, less than two weeks ago, you were observed entering a house off Floral Street, and minutes later, Mr. Bentnick was also seen to enter the same premises? You were then observed in intimate conversation with Mr. Bentnick in a room on the first floor. Do not think me overzealous or prying, Mrs. Bowles, but as I have already made clear, in view of the fact that a man is dead and a valuable jewel has gone missing, I must press you for an honest response.”

Her pale blue eyes grew round as marbles. Her lips worked as though she would speak, and yet for several moments no utterance came. When at last she managed to compose herself sufficiently to speak, her voice trembled with emotion.

“I do not know who has provided you with this malignant slander,” said she, with what vestige of dignity she could muster, “but I can assure you my character has been most unjustly traduced. There is a confidence I would have preferred not to break, but since you appear intent upon besmirching my reputation, I will tell you. Nothing untoward has taken place between Mr. Bentnick and me. Nothing whatsoever. He has paid several visits to me at my residence, in order to commission two ball gowns—one is a surprise for Mrs. Mercier, the other is for his daughter.”

Joshua was taken aback and not entirely convinced. He looked down at the book again. “If that was all, what reason did he have to visit your private dwelling?”

“He didn’t wish Violet to catch him. He is a man of great generosity and kindness. He didn’t want the surprise to be spoiled.”

Her outrage and mortification seemed genuine. Joshua reached down and opened the book’s cover. The handwriting was small and regular, a copperplate hand. It was nothing like the writing on the letters. She couldn’t be the claimant. He was about to apologize for upsetting her, but before he had a chance to make amends, he heard the pounding of heavy footsteps and a voice bellowing his name. An instant later the door burst open. Francis Bentnick stood there, his face red and moist, his straw-colored hair plastered to his forehead. “Mr. Pope,” he blustered, “you must come at once. A terrible tragedy has taken place.”