Serpent in the Garden (7 page)

Sabine sat at her dressing table—an elaborate piece of furniture draped in moiré silk with hinged mirrors and numerous drawers. She said nothing to Joshua after bidding him wait a moment. He hovered awkwardly by the door, watching her back. Over her shoulder he could see that the surface of the dressing table was strewn with various expensive-looking objects: combs and brushes of tortoiseshell, pots for powder and pomade with heavily wrought silver lids, enameled boxes for patches and dishes for pins, an ivory necessaire. The top drawer was half opened; before her was a shagreen box. The box was open; inside, nestled in a bed of oyster silk, lay an emerald necklace.

Joshua had seen this piece of jewelry before. Sabine had worn it on both evenings since his arrival and when she sat for her portrait. As on all these occasions, he found himself both drawn and repelled by it. The necklace was composed of a dozen stones graduated in size, the largest the size of his thumbnail. Each stone was set in gold and joined to the next by a heavy gold link. What made the piece so unsettling was its unusual design. It was fashioned as a serpent, with the mouth clasping the tail. The head was formed from the largest stone, the eye, a single ruby.

Sabine held up the necklace in front of the looking glass. A sliver of sunlight penetrated the drawn curtains and glanced off the emeralds’ facets. Shades of ultramarine, orpiment, verdigris, green earth, and bone black were juxtaposed with Sabine’s own reflection, which seemed faded by the faceted brilliance of stone. Points of brilliant green glittered with such vibrancy it seemed as if the serpent were alive.

What could possess a woman to wear with impunity so disturbing an object about her neck? Joshua found himself appalled; the very sight of it made his flesh crawl.

Sabine appeared to be utterly transfixed by her jewel. As he waited, the stuffy heat and sweet scent seemed to grow stronger by the minute. At length, without turning, she spoke. “It is beautiful, is it not, Mr. Pope?” she said, gazing at her reflection in the glass.

He nodded uncomfortably. For one so used to hobnobbing with gentry, he was unsure how to comport himself in a lady’s boudoir. He felt sympathy for her, for the shock she had suffered; he didn’t want to cause offense, but neither did he want to encourage her to keep him there. For what purpose had she summoned him? Ever courteous, he attempted to draw it out of her.

“Indeed, madam, it is a most remarkable object. Did Mr. Bentnick give it to you?”

“Whatever gave you such an idea? The necklace doesn’t belong to Bentnick. It is mine. I brought it with me when I came.”

“You mentioned you had some service to ask of me, madam. Does it concern your next sitting? Perhaps you would rather postpone it?”

She gave her head a little shake, as if Joshua had awakened her from some secret reverie. “Indeed I have a request to make, Mr. Pope, and I thank you for reminding me of it. I would like you to go to the head gardener, Granger. See if he has disposed of the body. I believe I heard Mr. Bentnick instruct him to do so. Ask if he has found out anything of note about the man. Was there anything in his pockets, for instance? I cannot help feeling curious as to his identity. You may tell me what you find at our next sitting. Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Pope …”

“Yes, madam?” said Joshua, with a polite smile and a sinking heart.

“You will do me a great service if you say none of this to the other members of this household. Mr. Bentnick has recently suffered the loss of his wife. I wish to spare him any unnecessary disturbance. It is no concern of anyone else’s.”

D
INNER AT ASTLEY always took place at the fashionable hour of three in the afternoon, and despite Sabine’s discovery of the body in the pinery, the day was no different from any other. There were only four at table, Herbert, his two children—Francis and Caroline—and Joshua.

Having retired to her room, Sabine remained there. Violet, her daughter, had gone to London early the previous day for an appointment with her dressmaker and was not expected to return until the following afternoon.

They ate in the morning room, an annex to the drawing room, decorated on a classical theme with swags of acanthus and friezes in faux marble depicting wrestling gods enjoying the pleasures of the senses. Below the frieze the walls were painted a vibrant shade of yellow and pasted with engravings. Scenes of the Parthenon and Mount Olympus and the temples of Zeus and Diana were interspersed with figures of sundry classical gods—Apollo, Poseidon, Athena, and Bacchus—who seemed to survey disapprovingly those assembled about the circular mahogany table to devour, in place of nectar and ambrosia, a collation of cold ham, boiled fowl, and brawn.

Up until that moment Joshua had believed that Herbert Bentnick was as happy as any man could be, given the recent loss of his wife. He had compared his own situation with Herbert’s, and found himself envious. For several months after his dear wife, Rachel, and their son, Benjamin, had been drowned, Joshua could scarcely bring himself to contemplate intimacy with another woman. Then, two months ago, believing he would go mad with melancholy, he had found himself his mistress, Meg Dunn. Warm and willing though she was, Meg was never a substitute for Rachel. He still longed for a second wife, yet despite various attempts at finding one, none had been forthcoming. He had fruitlessly strolled about the gardens at Vauxhall, attended assemblies at Ranelagh and Sunday matins in Saint Paul’s Covent Garden—generally considered the best places to come across eligible young women. All to no avail.

Herbert, by contrast, had no sooner lost Jane than he had found and captured Sabine, and clearly he was besotted with her. Moreover, he had two children; his house contained numerous treasures; exquisite grounds surrounded it. Herbert was possessed of everything a gentleman could possibly desire. Fate had dealt him a generous hand. But after this dinner Joshua began to see the situation differently.

Caroline and Francis were already seated at the table when Joshua entered the room. He bade them good day and was greeted with a bold stare and the curtest of nods. He took his seat, pretending to look with rapt interest at an engraving of Europa propelled away on the back of a bull. Had he imagined the absence of civility? Had he offended them in some way? Was something amiss in his dress? He was wearing a coat of puce-colored silk, fine black breeches, and a shirt trimmed with Brussels lace; he looked down surreptitiously. All was as it should be. Why did Herbert not remark their singular behavior? He was currently carving a fowl, apparently oblivious to the strain.

A lesser man might perhaps have felt mortified, or at the very least chastened, by their coolness. But Joshua’s self-possession was in no sense diminished. He was a guest of this distinguished household; he had been commissioned to perform a service. But he did not view himself as subservient. Instead, like a spectator in a theater who observes a play, Joshua believed he belonged to a separate order entirely.

Confronted by this unnatural atmosphere, once he had overcome his initial shock, his artistic zest was inflamed. He sat at the table alert. As a surveyor of mankind, the unusual was what most intrigued him. Caroline and Francis’s insolence was fascinating. How does a face contort when it is annoyed but cannot express it? How do eyes alter when they suppress some grievance? What inner resentment lurks behind a twitching lip? Here was fertile ground to observe. The only frustration was that he could not take out his pencil and draw as well as witness it.

Herbert’s son, Francis, was heir to the Astley estate and fortune. Twenty-three years of age, he had a straight, high-bridged nose, brows that met in the middle, and a rather small mouth. He had the physique of a young Hercules; well-muscled shoulders bulged beneath his coat, and strong thighs shaped his breeches. He must have stood six foot three in his stockinged feet, towering half a head taller than Joshua’s five foot nine inches.

Francis’s sister, Caroline, was two years his senior. Her face was narrow and angular, her nose straight but rather long, her mouth wide and surprisingly voluptuous. They were features that might have held a certain allure had some spark of animation enlivened them; but at present, with dissatisfaction reflected in the downturn of her lip and in eyes that seemed as flat and cold as a pewter dish, there was nothing whatsoever to recommend them.

What struck Joshua most forcefully was the contrast between their father’s habitual joviality and his children’s incontrovertible gloom. How curious, thought he, that such an amiable fellow as Herbert Bentnick should spawn such morose offspring, and he began to wonder what the reason for their downcast spirits might be. So curiosity swelled like a pimple that if scratched develops to a contagion. Having begun to question Caroline and Francis’s behavior, he found himself dwelling on the subject.

Meanwhile, Herbert made valiant attempts to sustain a conversation. He discussed the progress of the portrait with Joshua, trying all the while to entice Caroline’s interest in the exchange. “It seems to be going along splendidly, does it not, Pope? You must come and admire it, Caroline, and show Mr. Pope your own album while you’re about it.”

Caroline’s face looked blacker than a chimney sweep’s coat; she said nothing.

“Does Miss Bentnick draw?” Joshua enquired, watching her intently.

Caroline regarded her plate in silence.

Herbert, with no trace of awkwardness, addressed Joshua. “I daresay, Pope, you believe, as most men do, that no woman can draw like a man, for they have inferior powers of concentration. I believed as much myself till I saw my daughter’s work. I warrant when you see it you will change your view too and declare it as accomplished as any you have seen.”

Joshua waved his napkin with an extravagant flourish to show he disagreed entirely with Herbert’s presumption. “Indeed,” he drawled, “I pride myself on my lack of prejudice. A woman may concentrate as avidly as a man if the subject is agreeable to her. I should be honored to view your work, Miss Bentnick.”

This entreaty was to no avail. Caroline’s eyes flashed at her father. She ignored Joshua’s comment.

“You have only to regard the profiles by the chimneypiece, for they are works by my daughter,” said Herbert hastily, pointing to three watercolors. “Two I’m sure you recognize—they are of my son and myself. The person in the center is a neighbor of ours, Lizzie Manning. She is Caroline’s great friend and the daughter of the local justice.”

Joshua murmured some halfhearted compliment about the quality of the drawing, and then an uncomfortable silence descended. He gamely turned the conversation to the dead man in the pinery. Had anything been discovered as to the man’s identity? Herbert’s expression suggested he found the subject an unsavory one to bring up over dinner. He chewed his meat slowly before answering: he had learned that the corpse was that of a man who had recently arrived from Barbados.

“How do you know?” asked Joshua with interest. He had yet to comply with Sabine’s request and question Granger; perhaps Herbert would save him the trouble.

“There were two letters in his pocket. Granger found them and passed them to me. One mentioned the fact of his recent arrival from Bridgetown.”