Serpent in the Garden, page 10
Bridget’s manner toward him had warmed significantly in recent months. Occasionally when she looked at him meaningfully as he came and went, it was on the tip of his tongue to ask her how she was, or where she was going, or if she would care to sit for him. But then he remembered Mrs. Quick’s irascible temper and how much he relied upon her favorable opinion. His rooms were pleasant, and after so much turmoil in recent months the thought of moving again was insupportable. Mrs. Quick saw him as the means of effecting useful introductions for her daughter. He had no wish to disabuse her.
Two hours later, filled with cold mutton and hot ale, he retired to his comfortable bed. He fell asleep still tingling at the pleasant memory of Meg, glad to be among his own possessions and familiar faces, and telling himself that the menace he had sensed at Astley was probably no more than the product of idle imaginings.
• • •
WHEN Joshua awoke the next morning his resolve to pursue the matter of Cobb’s death was fully restored. He rose early and dressed with customary care in a buff wool coat with chocolate-colored braid, brown breeches, and a black silk cravat. Having breakfasted modestly on rolls and marmalade without allowing himself to be distracted by Bridget, who lingered by the parlor door, he strode out in the direction of Gray’s Inn Lane.
He was going to find Mr. Hoare, the attorney who had called on John Cobb at Richmond. He recalled that Lizzie Manning had suggested this visit, soon after the idea had occurred to him. She had promised to discover what she could from Violet’s maid, and he wondered if she had been as good as her word.
He found the place easily. A small tarnished plaque to one side of the door announced that the premises belonged to Messrs. Enoch Crackman & Bartholomew Hoare, Solicitors at Law. He entered a narrow corridor leading to a winding stair. Most of the windows had obviously been recently bricked in—a result, no doubt, of the exorbitant glass tax. The few that remained were blackened by grime and soot. The air smelled musty, even though the day was fine and warm. At the top of the stair he groped his way along another dank passage toward a door at the far end. The office within was no less dingy than the corridor without. In the dim light he could see every surface was littered with sheaves and scrolls and pamphlets of paper, and large leather-bound tomes, some open, some closed, were scattered about over floor, tables, and desks. Several young clerks sat amid this sea of paper, writing furiously with their dusty quills or consulting the pages of the books. At the rear of the office was a large partners desk. Hunched on one side of it, immersed in writing entries in a vast ledger, was an elderly gentleman.
Joshua went over to him. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “My name is Joshua Pope. I come in search of a Mr. Bartholomew Hoare. I believe he has his office here?”
The man raised his head slowly and regarded him. As a portrait painter Joshua made it his business to remember every oddity of physiognomy, but he was unprepared for this gentleman’s features. His face was long and narrow, with a curved, beaklike nose and a strongly cast jaw. But it was his eyes that took Joshua aback. One was heavy-lidded, deep set into his skull, and the palest of blue; the other was a void, a hollow socket with the skin stretched across and stitched over. Joshua started, blinked, then resisted his urge to stare by looking at the papers on the desk. The man seemed to take his embarrassed surprise quite in his stride.
“You believe correctly. There is a Mr. Hoare who conducts his business here. I am his senior partner, Enoch Crackman. Have you an appointment?”
“I regret I have not. Is one necessary?”
“It might have helped, for the gentleman you desire to see is not here. He has been away on business the past few days—longer than expected. On what matter did you wish to consult him? Perhaps I may assist you? Bartholomew Hoare is my nephew.”
“My business concerns Mr. John Cobb, a gentleman recently arrived from Barbados. I believe Mr. Hoare visited this gentleman at an inn in Richmond a few days ago.”
Crackman swallowed thoughtfully before replying. “What is it to you if he did?”
“I wish to discover the nature of his business.”
“Does it concern you?”
“In a manner of speaking. I am acting for Mr. Cobb.”
Joshua handed him a calling card. The old man looked at it, holding it so close to his good eye it practically brushed his cheek. Then he guffawed and shook his head. “Forgive my asking. Your reputation is well known to me. I believe you have recently painted an uncle of mine. The portrait hangs in Lincoln’s Inn.”
“Judge Lessiter?” guessed Joshua, seeing a vague resemblance now in the cast of Crackman’s jaw and the aquiline curve of his nose.
“The very same. The perceptiveness of your portrait I thought quite remarkable. I don’t know how you managed to convey his eloquence, sagacity, and wit with canvas and paint, and yet that is exactly what you did.”
Joshua blushed as he always did at such accolades. “You are most kind. The judge was a delightful man. He had much to occupy him yet he was unfailingly patient.”
“And he was greatly taken with your depiction. Took me to see it.” Crackman halted and looked intently at Joshua again. “Nevertheless, I regret, Mr. Pope, I must ask this. Do you have any letter of authority from Mr. Cobb?”
Joshua shook his head.
“Then I am sorry to say you have wasted your time. Whatever the business between Messrs. Cobb and Hoare, it is a matter of confidence. Mr. Hoare wouldn’t tell another soul without good authority or reason, and neither will I.”
“Perhaps, sir, I can persuade you. I tell you this, and there are plenty to vouch for the truth of it. Mr. Cobb is dead, in mysterious circumstances. I believe he may have been murdered. I am attempting to seek the truth of his death. Are the interests of justice not reason enough to talk to me?”
“Cobb is dead? Are you quite certain?”
“As certain as I can be. I was there when his body was discovered in a pineapple house at Astley House, Richmond. You have only to write to Mr. Herbert Bentnick at that address to verify it.”
“Astley House, Richmond? That too is a familiar name. And when precisely did Cobb die?”
“Three days ago.”
The old man scratched his wispy pate with the tip of his quill. His single eye gleamed like a night-light in the dark. “Unless I am very much mistaken, Mr. Hoare was last in this office four days ago. He mentioned he had an appointment out of town. Quite possibly it was with Mr. Cobb, for he’d visited him earlier in the week, as you say.” He turned to address a young clerk. “Posner, look up Mr. Hoare’s engagements for three days ago, would you?”
Posner briskly did as he was asked. After some minutes he affirmed that Mr. Hoare had indeed made an appointment to call on Mr. Cobb at the Star and Garter, Richmond, at three o’clock in the afternoon.
“On what matter?” interposed Joshua. “I am sure, after all I’ve revealed, you could give me some indication, Mr. Crackman. And in doing so you would be doing poor Cobb a great service.”
There was a long pause while Mr. Crackman scrutinized Joshua and regarded his visiting card again. “I see no reason to withhold the information, bearing in mind that Cobb is dead and you are a highly respectable person. I own I do not know the full story, for the case wasn’t mine. I can tell you, however, that their business involves a matter of inheritance—a disputed property.”
“But Cobb had recently arrived from Barbados, had he not?”
He nodded briskly. “The other party involved in the dispute had also come to England from the same place.”
“Do you know the name of the other party?” Joshua hazarded it must be Sabine Mercier, but he wanted verification.
“I do not recall, but I am perfectly willing for Posner to conduct a search of our records. I will inform you in due course of any discoveries.”
“I would be most grateful, sir.”
Crackman coughed, and twirled his quill thoughtfully. “I have a very pretty granddaughter, aged about five or six. I have always wanted her painted. I did have a profile done by Hayman, but it does not do her justice …”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Crackman, of course I will do it, just as soon as I have finished at Astley.”
“And the charge?”
“Shall we say six guineas for a head and shoulders?”
Crackman smiled with delight.
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
Barlow Court, Richmond
25th May
Mr. Pope,
I have, as I promised, spoken with Violet’s maid, Marie. She is Barbadian by birth and has been employed by Mrs. Mercier for the past ten years as lady’s maid for her daughter and herself. She is not at all happy with her move to England, displays little loyalty or affection toward Violet and her mother, and longs to return to Bridgetown. I tell you this only so that you understand why she leapt at my offer of some friendly discourse. I easily persuaded her to describe to me the events of their stay in London. I confess myself quite mystified as to what bearing her information has on the death of John Cobb, yet I cannot help my conviction there must be some connection. After all, was not Herbert spotted at the Star and Garter arguing with Cobb? Yet I should also say I find it impossible to believe that Herbert, whom I have known since a child, and who has been a kind benefactor to me on several occasions, could be responsible for Cobb’s death. His fiancée and her daughter are, to my mind, quite another matter.
The day before Mrs. Mercier discovered the body in the pinery, Marie had accompanied Violet to London. Violet had an appointment with her dressmaker and had been invited to visit the theater with a relative of Herbert’s. They intended to pass the night in town before returning to Astley.
According to Marie, Violet had recently been out of sorts and the day of the visit to the dressmaker, Mrs. Bowles, was no exception. The gown fitted miraculously, the trimming was exquisite. There were tiny seed pearls embroidered on the bodice in a pattern of rosebuds, silk roses stitched to her shoulders and neck, satin bows and Brussels lace trimming the neck. To Violet, such details were usually of the utmost importance, but that day nothing could vanquish her lackluster spirits, or spur her to offer poor Mrs. Bowles one word of encouragement.
I pressed Marie to tell me what lay at the heart of Violet’s misery. Had it to do with John Cobb? She revealed that several weeks ago there had been a “fondness” between Violet and Cobb, but that when Sabine discovered this, she had intervened to curtail it. And since her arrival at Astley, Violet has developed an ungovernable fondness for Francis Bentnick. As soon as Caroline saw this, she told Violet that Francis was as good as promised to me. According to Marie, Violet thinks I am no match for her, and as far as Marie is aware, no man has ever refused her anything. Francis’s elusiveness only seems to make her more determined. You can imagine I wasn’t much pleased to learn of Violet’s intentions, but though I sensed the maid wanted some response, and I own I longed to say something on the matter, I kept silent.
After the fitting, Violet and Marie passed down Southampton Street, toward Covent Garden. They paused to look in the windows of shops selling fans and ribbons and pomades. A pair of sedan chairs pushed roughly past. Marie hastily pulled Violet to the shelter of a doorway to save her from being trampled.
It was while they waited for the commotion to pass that they chanced to look back up the Strand, in the direction from which they had come, and saw Mrs. Bowles turn the corner of Southampton Street on the other side of the road and pass by not a dozen paces in front of them. She was wearing a hat with ribbons and bows and feathers and now appeared almost like one of the gentry. Violet and Marie accidentally fell into step some distance behind her on the opposite side of the road. They followed her up Southampton Street, until she came to the piazza and turned into Floral Street. Here they saw her halt in front of a door between a bookseller and a chandler’s. She briefly knocked, the door was opened, and she entered as comfortably as if she had been there a dozen times before—or as if she lived there.
They were about to continue on their way when their attention was caught by a second familiar figure approaching from the opposite direction. This person, a gentleman, seemed somewhat preoccupied and looked more than once at his pocket watch as if late or pressed for time. He stopped outside the same door, knocked, and entered. He was dressed in a dark tricorn hat and a fine brown suit with horn buttons. Even from this distance they could not fail to recognize him instantly. The man to whom Violet’s mother, Sabine Mercier, was engaged had apparently arranged a secret assignation with her dressmaker. Herbert Bentnick was taking tea in Mrs. Bowles’s drawing room and looking for all the world as if he was quite at home there.
Is this not a most curious incident? It does explain the peculiar conversation between Violet and Herbert that we both remarked the other evening, though it also raises a further question: why did Herbert deny the visit? What was he trying to hide? Perhaps you might call on Mrs. Bowles. I look forward with eagerness to hearing your thoughts and learning how you have fared with Mr. Hoare. I will endeavor to call on the Bentnicks in the next few days in order that we may discuss how to advance our strategy.
In eager anticipation,
Elizabeth Manning
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
FASCINATED though he was, Joshua didn’t reply to Lizzie Manning’s letter. The reason for his inaction was twofold: First, bearing in mind her animosity toward Violet, he was unsure how reliable her testimony was and whether it was prudent to involve her in his future enquiries. Second, masculine embarrassment constrained him. The nature of Herbert’s assignment with the dressmaker seemed to Joshua to be perfectly obvious. No doubt Sabine intended to keep her bedroom door closed until the wedding night. If Herbert had an occasional rendezvous with a dressmaker to ease matters, what of it? Denying all knowledge of the woman was, in Joshua’s opinion, a manifestation of his gentlemanly discretion, and far from being evidence of some malicious subterfuge. By failing to comprehend this obvious fact, Lizzie Manning had merely revealed her naivety, but Joshua had no intention of explaining the matter to her.
The following day Joshua received a note from Herbert Bentnick.
Astley House
26th May 1766
Pope,
I would be greatly obliged if you would return to Astley without any delay. A matter of the utmost gravity has arisen. I believe you are the only person to help.
Yrs,
Herbert Bentnick
The note was so abrupt, so unlike the effusive Herbert. There was no mention of Sabine’s return, which was when Joshua expected to be recalled. Had some other dreadful tragedy taken place? If it had, why would Herbert summon Joshua? Joshua began to worry that Lizzie Manning might have let slip something of their inquiries into Cobb’s death. How foolish he had been to trust her. The intelligence he thought he discerned was a delusion. The woman was nothing but a featherbrained chatterbox, incapable of keeping what she knew to herself. She had doubtless pursued her own course, or perhaps she had mentioned something of her conversation with the maid, Marie, to Caroline or Francis or Violet. Perhaps—Joshua shuddered—Sabine had learned of their enquiries and he was being summoned to explain himself.
In the midst of his preparations to leave for Astley there was a knock on his door. Bridget Quick had heard the clatter and had come to see what he was about. It was barely an hour since Joshua had breakfasted, yet she’d brought a slice of cherry cake and a jug of porter. “You might care for a little of this.” She held out the offerings and stepped in through the door before Joshua had the wit to halt her. She was wearing a dress of cream dimity with pale blue flowers printed on it. Her hair was slightly undone, and escaped wisps curled about her neck; she made a very fetching picture.
“You are most kind,” he said, groaning silently at the sight of the immense wedge on the plate, but drawn as ever to Bridget’s feminine attractions. “But as you see, you catch me when I am all a-fluster. I must leave directly for Richmond. An emergency has arisen.”
“Surely it cannot be so pressing you have no time to eat? Indeed, if it is so urgent, my assistance will come in useful. Sit down; let me pack your clothes.”
Joshua would have preferred not to let her among his things. Bridget’s helpfulness always made him feel defensive, because part of him yearned to be friendlier with her, but, remembering her mother, he forced himself to hold back. However, on this particular day his mind was preoccupied with Herbert’s letter and he was less alert than usual. He found himself letting her fold his linens and cravats and stockings. Bending low so that her skirts fanned out like a flower over her broad bottom, she stowed each article with great care in his portmanteau.
“Your costumes are very fine, Mr. Pope. I do admire them. I admire any man who takes pride in his garb.” She paused expectantly, waiting for him to say something. Joshua was torn between wanting to reply encouragingly and remembering that circumspection would be wiser.
“You too always look very charming—particularly so today, in that gown,” he said rather flatly, stepping away to give himself room to think.
Bridget shot him an unusually penetrating look. “Sometimes, however, I wonder if our preoccupation with dress is not just a means to deflect attention from deeper worries.”
What on earth did she mean? This was not the sort of remark he expected from his landlady’s daughter, no matter how pretty she was. Joshua looked down at the sleeve of his jacket as if he would find the answer inscribed upon it. “Indeed, Miss Quick. I am vastly grateful for your assistance and compliments. However, when it comes to your last remark, I cannot agree. Surely our outward appearance reflects what lies within.”
