"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."

Chapter Eight.

UNTIL 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 cuc.u.mbers 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 a.s.sured.

"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."

Joshua looked down at his fingers, which seemed feeble compared to Granger's long, earthy digits.

"Forgive me, sir. But I can't see what all this is to you," added Granger with unexpected curtness.

Joshua met his gaze. "People intrigue me, Mr. Granger. Just as I presume you take note when you encounter a strange plant, so do I when I encounter some human idiosyncrasy. I heard Francis Bentnick say Miss Violet recognized the fellow. Yet Herbert Bentnick believed him to be a stranger to Sabine and her daughter. And now you tell me he claimed to know about pineapples and that his hands were not those of a gardener. That strikes me as a rare and curious fact. And it is a rare coincidence too that he should turn up here at Astley, at the very moment you turn the conservatory into a pinery."

"What gives you the impression any of it was a rare coincidence? It was nothing of the kind. He said it was Mrs. Mercier who wrote and urged him to come on account of it. I didn't believe him, but there's no doubt in my mind that he knew her."

"What else did you learn of him?"

"He was a destructive man."

"In what way?"

"Is this not proof enough?" Granger waved at the broken pots before him.

"Is that all? You can't be sure this damage wasn't accidental. He might have staggered about in his last moments and broken the pots unwittingly."

"The pots were half buried, sir. I think not. The damage was certainly deliberate. And there's more. When he came here two days ago, he cut one of the most advanced fruits without my noticing, and took it away."

"How do you know he did it?"

"Who else would have done it?"

"And what did you make of such an action?"

"I thought that I was correct to label him a rascal and that he can't have known a jot about pineapples. He should have known you cannot eat a green fruit: it's the bitterest thing you ever tasted."

"Did you not go after him and chastise him?"

Granger shrugged his shoulders. "What would be the purpose? The damage was done."

"I take it you spoke of this to Mrs. Mercier?"

Granger nodded.

"And how did she respond?"

Granger paused a moment. "Not as I expected. She seemed startled. She stared, asked me to repeat myself, shook her head. Then she said, 'I do not know this man; nor have I written to anyone and asked him to come here. I am glad you sent him away. You did well to do so, Granger.'"

The gardener paused again, while he pressed compost round a plant to secure it. Then he looked away into the far distance. "She never mentioned his name, yet I suspected she knew exactly who he was and that he wasn't at all welcome. Why else would she have been so pleased I acted as I did?"

Joshua ignored his question. "Did you discover his name?"

"Only this morning. I searched his pockets; there were two letters in one of them, both addressed to a man called John Cobb."

"What became of the letters?"

"I gave them to Mr. Bentnick when you and he arrived to a.s.sist this morning."

"And what were your impressions when you found Mrs. Mercier?"

"All in all, her behavior this morning was singular."

Granger confided then that not only had he been first on the scene, he had nearly witnessed the discovery. He had been waiting for Sabine's arrival; it was her custom to speak to him every morning on her way to the pinery. More often than not she required that he accompany her on her rounds of the building so that she could instruct him on new tasks for the day.

"This morning, when I saw Mrs. Mercier enter the walled garden, I expected her to come toward me or, at the very least, acknowledge my presence. She did neither. She seemed preoccupied. I followed her into the pinery because I had several matters of business to discuss: more young pines to pot, cuttings to be rooted, a question of tan bark to discuss. Soon after I entered the pinery I came across her crouched on the path, cradling the dead man."

"How did she seem?"

Granger screwed up his eyes as if searching for the right words. "She wasn't sobbing or screaming. Her eyes were wide open, her brow knotted. I would say she looked surprised rather than fearful. It was only when I called out and offered to help her that the horror of the situation seemed to strike her. She let go her hold on the body, which flopped back, then placed a kerchief over his face, as if she couldn't bear to look at him. When she stood up she shuddered visibly, as if frozen to the core. I was not four feet distant from her, yet I might have been ten miles away for all the heed she paid me. She pushed past and fled to the door. Once outside, she let out a piercing cry. I daresay that was what brought you and Mr. Bentnick running."

Joshua nodded. "What then?"

"I offered her my a.s.sistance again. This time she registered the offer and ordered me to go at once and examine the body. I did as she instructed and retrieved the letters. I intended to give them to her, but by the time I returned, you and Mr. Bentnick had arrived and Mrs. Mercier's condition seemed worse. I thought it more appropriate to hand them to Mr. Bentnick."

"Did you read them? Did you see who wrote them?" Joshua demanded.

"No, there was no time. Besides, it wasn't my place to do so. I saw only the name. John Cobb."

Chapter Nine.

THE NEXT DAY, when Joshua met Miss Elizabeth Manning, his first impression was that she was quite as insipid in the flesh as the wan portrait Caroline Bentnick had drawn. She had arrived in the same carriage as Violet Mercier, who was just returned from London. He caught sight of her from an upstairs window-a slight figure clad in her traveling dress: a black bonnet, a coat of dull mouse brown, a plain gray skirt beneath.

In the drawing room that evening Joshua began to temper his view. Miss Manning was no beauty, perhaps, but not entirely without charm all the same. Her face was small and rather birdlike, with a pointed chin, a well-defined nose, and l.u.s.trous gray eyes set wide apart in a complexion unblemished by pox. Her lips were compactly drawn and playful. She had small, perfectly white teeth that showed whenever she smiled, which was often. That evening she wore a black bodice garnished with oyster ribbons from bosom to waist. Her hair, a thick ma.s.s of chestnut tresses, had been dressed with a single white silk rose. About her neck, another white rose was attached to an oyster ribbon. However, none of this would have altered his impression of her ordinariness had he not made another discovery. Her real attraction lay within.

Conversation was Lizzie Manning's lifeblood. She was born with an insatiable desire to discuss her thoughts, to eke out confidences. Silence was anathema to her. Though it was often said that she had learned to talk before she walked, the truth was that when Lizzie was only five, her mother had died in childbirth, leaving her daughter and infant son to be raised by a nurse with a fortunate capacity for chatter. This was why to be left in solitude by her father (who was in the north on business) and her brother (whose whereabouts she didn't mention) had been like purgatory. The discovery that her dear friend Francis Bentnick had arranged for Violet to collect her on her return from London had thus delighted her beyond words.

New acquaintances were trophies to Lizzie Manning; she collected them as others collect seash.e.l.ls or coins or b.u.t.tons. Until that day she had never met Violet. From the moment she stepped into the carriage she had bombarded her with words of welcome and questions and confidences. The interrogation continued unabated throughout the afternoon and early evening.

"Tell me, dear Violet, what was Barbados like?"

"Most verdant and most pleasant, Miss Manning."

"Not Miss Manning-I am Lizzie to everyone. How I long to see it. Tell me about your mother's garden. I have heard it was like Eden."

"It is difficult to describe, Lizzie. It was lush, lavish, abundant ..."

"It can't be easy for you and your mother in such a strange environment so far from home. Do you have acquaintances, friends?"

"None, but we have each other."

"And tell me of the ball. What an event it will be! Have you decided what you will wear?"

"I have a gown nearly finished; it is pale blue silk with flowers and seed pearl embroidery."

"What an unusual necklace your mother is wearing. I don't believe I have ever set eyes on such stones. Nor such a design."

"It came from her second husband, Charles Mercier, my former stepfather."

"What is its history?"

"It is a curious one. The necklace dates from medieval times. Apparently it was made in Nuremberg-a city famous for the excellence of its craftsmen-as a love token. It was commissioned by a German princeling for a lady he wished to marry."

Lizzie's eyes were illuminated with interest. "But is not the serpent a most unusual love token for a besotted prince?"

"Perhaps," replied Violet with a smile, "though it is often used as a symbol of fertility."

"And did the prince win his lady?"

"Yes, though the story was not entirely happy. Soon after the pair married, the jewel was stolen by a jealous sister, who was apprehended and later burned as a witch. This gave rise to the superst.i.tion that the necklace would bring happiness if given in love, but ill fortune if it changed ownership for any material reason."

"What an intriguing and poignant history," said Lizzie, smiling. "It only adds to the allure of the jewel-if that is possible."

"You should say so to my mother," declared Violet, rising to bring her mother to speak to Lizzie, "for ever since she set eyes on the necklace, she has taken inordinate pride in wearing it, and does so at every opportunity."