The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf (23 page)

“And?” Peter prodded, when she didn’t continue.

“But I never saw him again. He hanged himself the next day.”

There it was: The truth she’d never spoken aloud.

“I see.” Peter’s fingers stabbed at his hair. “So you feel responsible. I get it. But I’m telling you, Jo: Let this one go. Jock was, what, eighty?”

“Eighty-four.”

“There you are, then. He’d had his innings. He knew what he was about, that day in the garage. He didn’t ask your permission, yeah—but neither did he shower anyone with blame. He made his choice.”

“And left me to deal with it.”

“You’re being incredibly egotistical, you know.”

“What?”

“Thinking it all revolves around you. That you’re the center of Jock’s drama. I’d wager otherwise, my darling.”

“I am
not
egotistical!” she cried, outraged.

“Disgustingly full of yourself.
He killed himself because of me
.
I reckon you’re wrong. Perhaps he couldn’t face whatever he’d left behind at Sissinghurst—but that may have far more to do with Virginia Woolf than it will ever have to do with Jo Bellamy.”

At his words, all the vehemence suddenly died out of Jo’s heart. She’d been about to argue passionately that Peter was wrong—that this guilt was completely hers to own, thank you very much, and no reasonable speech of
his
was going to change her mind. But he was right. Jock had made his choice. And she’d been operating for days, now, on the assumption that it had something to do with Sissinghurst’s Lady.

“So how do we find what’s missing from Ter Braak’s story?” she asked wearily.

Plates of fragrant curry materialized under their noses. Peter took a deliberate draft of beer, set down his glass, and looked at Jo. Had he actually called her “my darling”?

“I say we go dig up whatever Keynes buried in Rodmell that April,” he told her.

SHE WAS A FEW MINUTES LATE FOR BREAKFAST Wednesday, but Margaux felt that was only good business. Marcus
ought
to be kept salivating when the prize was a previously unknown Woolf manuscript.

Even if the manuscript was partial.

And unsigned.

Stop it
, she scolded herself as she smiled at the Connaught doorman, aware of the dazzling effect of her high-heeled boots, slim black leather skirt, and cashmere shawl.
Stop sabotaging your own brilliance. You own Marcus Git-Jones
.

She strode up to Reception, heads turning in her wake, and purred Gray Westlake’s name. A discreet phone call, while she tapped her lacquered nails on the polished counter. Then a smile and the firm suggestion of an escort to Westlake’s room; the staff of the Connaught was not about to let her wander
upstairs to the suite level alone, one of the many perquisites afforded a guest of Westlake’s wealth.

Floating beside the liveried butler, a man in his fifties who might have been mistaken for Mr. Bean, Margaux allowed her eyes to close briefly. She felt something akin to sexual arousal. She had no idea who Gray Westlake was, or how he made his money—only that Marcus had spoken coyly of him. Reverently. As though Westlake must be as fragile as china. And that meant gazillions.

All that cash. Waiting for her
. She’d expected to meet Marcus at Sotheby’s, or even at a coffee place on Oxford Street, not in the suite of a potential buyer. The Connaught had recently been renovated, hadn’t it, the whole kit and caboodle tricked out with fresh paint, fresh fabrics, fresh art brought out of storage—the suites were said to be utterly top drawer, respectful of tradition without slavishly imitating it—they’d hired a female chef from Paris, a Michelin two-star, Peter would be envious that she’d even set
foot
in the place.

But she wouldn’t, she thought hurriedly, be telling Peter about this adventure. Not right away.

“Here we are, madam,” Mr. Bean said, and tapped at the door.

It opened immediately.

Gary Westlake had been waiting for her.

She felt a brief frisson of surprise: He was shorter than she. And far more informal. In his khakis and polo, he looked braced for nothing more challenging than a round of golf.

“Miss Strand, sir,” the butler said.

“Thank you. Dr. Strand—I’m Gray Westlake. Please come in.”

He stepped backward into the room. Gave her a cool look of appraisal, a slight smile, and bloody
hell
—she was actually tongue-tied! Edging past him as though she didn’t know
where to put her feet, or whether she had the courage to meet those calculating eyes.
Ridiculous
. She was the one with the power. It was sitting safely in a pocket of her black leather briefcase, a bomb roughly the size and weight of an Inland Revenue return.

“Margaux!”

Marcus was grinning with all his white teeth, arms extended like a major domo’s as he walked toward her. He wore a suit that suggested his antecedents lay somewhere in Sicily, and a pumpkin-colored dress shirt.
Unbelievable
. She gave him her cheek, murmured a few syllables to convey he was irresistible, and looked past him to the frumpy, middle-aged woman who’d risen from the plush beige sofa in the suite’s massive living room.

Blimey
, was this Westlake’s wife?

“Allow me to introduce Imogen Cantwell. She’s… an interested party,” Marcus gushed through his teeth. “In the Woolf, that is.”

“You might as well say I’m the owner, and have done,” Imogen snapped irritably.

“But you’re
not
, sweet,” Marcus crooned. “We’re all avoiding the actual ownership issue, at the moment, and I’d advise you to keep quiet on that score. Margaux, do sit down. May I fetch you tea?”

“Coffee, actually.”

There was a silver service on a Regency sideboard; a platter of mouthwatering pastries; succulent fruit, well out of season. No one was eating. It was sad, really, Margaux thought—how it would all go to waste, Mr. Bean or somebody else tipping the whole lot into the rubbish bins. Was that what money
really
bought? Waste and empty gestures?

Defiantly, she strode over to the sideboard and filled a
bone china plate with raspberries and almond croissants. Marcus was hovering with a coffee cup.

“I take it fairly white,” she said. “A bad habit acquired during a term in Paris.”

He grinned again—what a dreadful habit; he ought to marry or acquire a competent gay partner, the right person would stop him making an absolute
ass
of himself. She let him carry the cup over to her chair. A plush club chair, drawn up to the fire. And good God in heaven, it was
working
. A real coal fire in the heart of a hotel. She closed her eyes for a second time, almost swooning.

“Dr. Strand—”

“Call me Margaux, please.” She smiled at Gray Westlake, who’d seated himself next to the Cantwell creature. He was such a relief for the eyes after Git-Jones; self-possessed. The sort of person who’d seen most things in the world, and remained unimpressed. She flushed slightly, suspecting from his indifferent gaze that she might be one of those unimpressive things—it was not a sensation to which she was accustomed.

“Margaux,” Gray said. “You have something to show us, I think?”

So much for food and pleasantries.

She reached into her briefcase and drew forth the notebook. Then hesitated, the worn little clutch of paper in her hands. “To think,” she half-whispered, “that
Virginia
once touched this…”

Imogen Cantwell rose from her seat, leaning ponderously over the elaborate flowers that dominated the sofa table.

“That’s it!” she crowed. “Minus the ribbon, and the tag with her grandpa’s name on it. I should never have let her take it—”

“May I?” Marcus interrupted. He was gazing at Margaux, but she was looking at Westlake.

The American’s mouth quirked slightly. “By all means.”

Marcus sighed as she handed him the notebook. He slipped a pair of reading glasses on his nose and a pair of cotton gloves on his fingers. His brow furrowed. He was swiftly transformed from an impossible salesman to a connoisseur of formidable standing; and despite herself, Margaux was impressed as he fluttered the leaves of the notebook with supreme delicacy, lost to the huddled group and their cooling coffee, intent, an original reader. For the space of several heartbeats the room was completely silent.

“No signature,” he noted.

“None,” she agreed. “But I’ve compared the handwriting to several examples in my possession…”

“Photocopies, however?”

“Of course. My budget doesn’t run to original Woolfs.”

Marcus’s nostrils contracted; he looked as though he were reserving judgment. He almost, but not quite, shrugged. “Yes—well, we’ll have the whole subject of handwriting thoroughly sussed before declaring our position. One that can
only
be heavily caveated, of course. The thing’s not even in good condition.”

He held up the notebook for Gray’s inspection, albeit with an antiquarian’s care. For an instant, all four of them studied the ravaged spine. A good half of the pages were missing.

“I’d be prepared to offer my professional opinion,” Margaux said, with faint irritation.

“Naturally.” The teeth bared again. “And we can verify such data as the composition of the notebook paper and probable binding origins—factories, year of issue, and so on—but you will admit it’s impossible to label such a thing
an absolute Woolf
. Fragmentary and without the slightest foothold in the established historical record as it is. And, of course, there’s the problem of the dates.”

Margaux stiffened.

“Dates?” Gray queried.

“The notebook begins the day
after
Woolf’s suicide,” Marcus said brightly. “Rather precludes her having written it, one would think—and a host of critics will certainly argue. I assume you noted that anomaly, Margaux?”

“Naturally.” Her irritation was undisguised now. “But when one takes the time to read the text, it becomes obvious that Woolf
didn’t
drown herself in the Ouse on the twenty-eighth of March. Rather, she ran away. From her miserable husband. Which any conscious scholar of Woolf and her oeuvre would be only too willing to applaud, Marcus. I assume you noted that
extraordinary reversal
of an entire school of literary analysis?”

“Hey,” Gray said. He was holding up his hands as though about to receive a basketball, a supplication for peace. “Let’s not squabble about this. The book is what it is. We need a team of impartial people to study it, and determine what they can. How long would Sotheby’s want to look at the manuscript, Marcus?”

“It’s already Wednesday.”

“But you could pay people overtime. Bring them in all weekend.”

“That
might
be possible,” Marcus agreed, glancing at Gray sidelong.

“Say until Monday, then.”

Margaux straightened. “Marcus, I can’t agree—”

“I’m taking the thing home!” Imogen Cantwell cried at exactly the same moment.

“By what right?” Margaux sneered.

“Oh, shut up, you great cow,” Imogen retorted. “You’re no better than the rest of them—thinking your authority, that handful of letters pegged after your name, gives you a dog in
this fight. You’d none of you be in this room if I hadn’t been such a fool as to give the notebook to Jo Bellamy. That Woolf belongs to The Family, and I want it back. If one of you tries to make off with it, I’ll go to the police and make a clean breast of the whole affair. I’ll have the Law on you.”

The simplicity of this statement brought everyone to a full stop. Margaux stared at Imogen, and Imogen stared at Marcus, while Gray still smiled faintly at something only he could see. They had all been tacitly playing a game for high stakes, and Imogen had just overturned the table.

“Miss Cantwell,” Gray said gently—he did not do her the injustice of assuming he should call her Imogen—“if you are determined to bring in the police, I suggest you call them now.” He held out a wireless phone receiver. “That way, they can take possession of the notebook while you make your statement.”

“Take
possession?
I’ve just said…”

“Because you
do realize
that none of us will let you leave this room with a potentially priceless manuscript. One that belongs to the National Trust… or perhaps to the Nicolson family… but that absolutely does
not
belong to you. That would be the height of irresponsibility on all our parts, don’t you agree?”

Imogen looked slightly sick. She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. Margaux imagined the scenes suddenly flooding the older woman’s mind: herself, explaining to the police why she was reporting the theft of a notebook clearly sitting on the cocktail table. Herself, explaining the whole debacle to various members of the National Trust, while they considered the best way to fire her.

Margaux’s heart rate accelerated. A bubble of mirth rose inconveniently in her throat. She could not take her eyes off
Gray Westlake—his carefully bland expression, his slightly quirked eyebrow. The man was brilliant. No wonder he’d made millions.