Serpent in the Garden (9 page)

“How do you know? Did you see him? Did you speak to him?”

“I believe I did. When I was walking with Violet, we met a man recently arrived from Barbados.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. Caroline’s voice rose an octave. “You went walking with Violet Mercier! I might ask you what do you think you were about? What sort of conversation did you have? Did you discuss the benefits of satin over silk as an underskirt, or whether the latest musical entertainment at Ranelagh is as ravishing as at Vauxhall?”

“You are very cynical. Violet’s outward attractions don’t make her a fool. I’m not convinced she’s any happier with her mother’s betrothal than we are. There’s more to her than we know. But to return to the dead man. The conversation I refer to was not between Violet and myself but between Violet and him. What I meant was that I was present when she spoke to him. And the exchange was most intriguing.”

“Violet smiled prettily at you and now she has you snared. Is that what you mean? Then you are no better than our father,” said Caroline, still distracted at the news of her brother’s promenade.

“Caroline, for pity’s sake, listen to what I say. What happened was this. I had just returned from a ride when Violet approached me and insisted that I accompany her on a turn about the gardens. I tried to excuse myself, but she wouldn’t give way. I fancy she has grown quite fond of me.”

“As you seem to be of her.”

“You know my agreement with Lizzie. We hope to marry.”

“Indeed? I thought perhaps you had cooled since the alteration in her circumstances.”

“Her fortune or lack of it makes no difference. Besides, it was no fault of hers.”

“And does Violet know of your situation?”

“I believe she does, though I hazard it doesn’t please her.”

There was a lengthy, uncomfortable silence, during which Joshua, perched behind the hedge, imagined the two glowering at each other. Goose pimples of anticipation rose on his arms and he scarcely dared breathe.

“At any rate, as I said, Violet insisted I go with her. Short of downright rudeness, she left me no choice but to comply. I consented to a short stroll, thinking I would make some excuse to escape as soon as the opportunity arose. We set off toward the pinery, and almost at once came upon a strange young fellow walking in the garden. He was personable, dressed fairly well—certainly not as a laborer. Violet seemed surprised to see him. She stopped and asked what he was doing. She didn’t introduce me, but I had the strong impression she knew him. I thought he seemed shocked at my presence, yet not at all displeased to see her. He replied that he had recently arrived from the Indies and had come here seeking employment.”

“And how did Violet respond?”

“She said that she could be of no assistance, that this was a private garden and he should leave at once.”

“Did she ask anything else?”

“Nothing. The conversation was very brief and, I would say, moreover, very stilted.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that as soon as she saw this stranger, I felt that she was eager to be rid of me. I had the feeling that what was said was for my benefit, a sham. She wanted to say more, but would not do so in my presence. She ushered me back to the house as speedily as she was able, saying she had grown tired. Once indoors, I asked how she knew the fellow and what his name was, but she was reluctant to disclose anything at all. She said she wanted to lie down, but I suspect she intended to go back to the garden and find him, for she kept peering out the window, as if to catch a glimpse of him.”

“She must have given some further word of explanation?”

“Only that she had thought when she saw him first he was a servant of her mother’s, but that she was mistaken.”

“And you said nothing of this to our father?”

“I was on the point of doing so at dinner today. But that wretched man Pope was there—probing in a matter which is no concern to him. And then I thought, why speak when holding back may yield us the fruit we desire? When Violet returns I intend to discuss the matter with her. If she knew him it is likely that her mother did too. His death may be a sign of some subterfuge or complicity between them—it is even possible Sabine was responsible for it. In which case, perhaps your suspicions concerning our mother’s death are not as far-fetched as I first thought. In any case, whatever Violet’s business with the man, there can be no doubt there is something she’s holding back. Our task is to unearth it.”

U
NTIL THAT MOMENT Joshua had been curious about the death only in a detached way. But now, it seemed to him singularly strange that Herbert Bentnick, who was usually consumed with curiosity by all manner of subjects, had manifested so little interest in the demise of a man in his pinery. Only Sabine Mercier had asked after the corpse. Surely, he thought, there was something devilishly wrong if a man could arrive mysteriously from Barbados, die in a pinery in a private garden, and be buried so precipitously, with barely a question being asked.

It was also clear to him that if Sabine had been responsible for the man’s death, she would not have invited Joshua to probe into it. She would want the matter forgotten as quickly as possible. But then, recalling Sabine’s emphatic command that he tell no one what he found, he felt less sure. Perhaps she was guilty in some way and was merely using him to discover what was generally known.

As he drew with his customary precision Joshua considered these conflicting points, and the more he did so, the more he felt a charge upon him to act for the dead man. He, too, was a stranger here, unfamiliar with these surroundings. But death was no stranger to him. He knew the torment it brings to those left behind. Suppose this dead man had a wife, children, parents, who as yet were ignorant of his demise. The thought of some poor woman fretting over her husband’s whereabouts troubled him profoundly.

An hour later his sketch was complete. He emerged from his sanctuary and made his way toward the pinery. A gravel path led past a knot garden, a pond filled with a galaxy of fish in shades of red and gold, and a border of rosebushes to the gate leading to the kitchen garden. Sheltered from the wind by high brick walls, the air here reeked of dung. In several beds, undergardeners, ranging from mere lads to elderly men, were busy planting, lifting, digging, and hoeing. One spindly lad was planting out hairy-leaved cucumbers and melons in forcing frames; another was cutting pink-tipped asparagus that reared like spears through mounds of manure.

Beyond, in the furthest corner of the garden, three small lean-to greenhouses hugged the wall. In contrast to the monumental pinery in which Sabine Mercier had discovered the body, these were modest structures, used for raising melons for the kitchens or ornamental blooms for the table.

Granger was standing at a bench, chewing on a long-stemmed clay pipe of tobacco, while he planted up large silver-leaved pineapple plants on a bench strewn with shards of broken pot. Smoke billowed about his head as he worked. His hands were large and callused and ingrained with dirt, yet his fingers were surprisingly slender and he handled the plants with great delicacy, like a child lifting eggs from a bird’s nest. As Joshua approached, Granger looked up and grunted an acknowledgment. Joshua appraised him with an artist’s eye. He cut a striking figure. His hair had the color and shine of ancient polished oak, his face was long and leathery. A scar on the left side of his face stretched from his chin to the top of his cheek, dragging down the eye, to give him a curious, lopsided appearance.

“Good day to you, Mr. Granger,” said Joshua. He nodded briefly toward the plants that Granger was tending. “I suppose pineapples must present a challenge to your skills.”

“I’ve seen them grown before in a small way, but never on such a scale.” His voice was gravelly, well spoken, and assured.

“At Astley?”

“No. At a previous estate, Beechwood. We tried them with some success.”

“Mrs. Mercier was fortunate to find a man of your expertise. You are only lately arrived here, I gather?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“And how do you find it, compared with other places?”

“As good as any, better than some,” said Granger, “though as for pineapples, it seems to me, from all she has shown me, there’s enough written on the subject to fill a library and turn the most inexperienced grower to an expert.”

“Must you always break the pots to replant them?”

“Not as a rule, sir. Nor in this instance either.”

“Then what are you doing now?”

“In dying where he did, the man’s proved uncommonly troublesome.” He grinned, revealing surprisingly white teeth.

“In what way?”

“Before he died he removed these pots from their beds and broke them,” Granger said flatly. “Lord knows why he did it. But Mrs. Mercier was most agitated on account of it and gave orders to put them to rights before the plants perished from a want of moisture. So here you see me doing the same as was done already not a week since.”

With that he took up a plant, placed it in a new pot, and tucked compost around it. The task was accomplished swiftly but with great gentleness.

“I gather the dead man was a stranger to these parts. Perhaps he came in search of work?”

This question prompted Granger to remove his pipe and place it upon the bench, alongside the shards of broken terra-cotta. He gave Joshua a level gaze. “You are a stranger here yourself, are you not, sir?” he said.

Joshua threw his traveling cloak back over his shoulder, allowing the gardener a flash of his brilliant waistcoat. “Indeed I am,” he declared, fanning himself with his hat, before banging his head with his fist at his own stupidity. “Forgive me, Mr. Granger, I haven’t told you who I am. I must introduce myself: Joshua Pope, come to Astley on commission to paint the marriage portrait of Mr. Bentnick and his future bride.”

Granger nodded his head slowly, looking Joshua up and down, taking in his strangely plumed hat, his extravagant cravat, the sketchbook under his arm, as if weighing up this information to see if it tallied with what he had just been told. “An artist, is it?” he said slowly. “And what would an artist be wanting with a gardener? Fancy painting some of my flowers, do you?”

“No. Yes. In a manner of speaking, I suppose I do,” Joshua replied frankly. Despite his disfigurement Granger had a pleasing face, strong bones beneath a skin colored by weather and life’s vicissitudes. Joshua imagined him dressed as a buccaneer or a brigand waving his curved sword aloft. He found himself itching to take out his chalks and sketch him. “But it wasn’t that which brought me here. I came because Mrs. Mercier asked me to.”

“And why did she do that?”

“She bade me ask you if you’d found anything about him.”

“No more than she already knows, for I told her before what I knew of him.”

“You met him before, then?”

“He came walking in the garden two days ago. I accosted him and he said it was work he was after, and that he was expert in the cultivation of pineapples. It was my opinion he’d not done much in this line before, so I sent him packing.”

“On what did you base your judgment?”

“In part his shifty look. But mostly because of his hands, sir. They were more carefully manicured than your own.”