"Is it often that you are called here from London by the family?"

"No sir. Indeed, it's the first time."

"Did Mr. Granger tell you anything of the recent events that have taken place here?"

"A little."

"Perhaps, then, he also mentioned that I have been ordered to look into them?"

"He did say something of the kind, but since it all took place before my arrival, I do not see what possible help I can be to you."

"Madam," said Joshua, in a more authoritative tone, "what you know of the family may have a bearing on these events, even if you are unaware of it. Thus I would ask, how did your connection with the family come about?"

"I come originally from a village near Luton in Bedfordshire. The Bentnicks are acquainted with the Seebrights, owners of Beechwood, a large estate in the county. When I ventured to London, after the death of my husband, Frances Seebright recommended me to all her friends in the vicinity, among them Jane Bentnick. I presume that after Mrs. Bentnick's death, Miss Caroline must have pa.s.sed my name on to Mrs. Mercier and her daughter."

"That was most fortunate for you."

Mrs. Bowles smiled wryly. "Miss Violet, I may say, is a most demanding customer; she insisted I personally deliver the gown I have made for her, in case any alterations are necessary. Now that I am here, Mr. Bentnick requests that I adjust his breeches, for he complains they have always been too tight."

The name Beechwood was familiar to him.

"Tell me, Mrs. Bowles, a little of your background. Are your parents still alive?"

"Both my parents are dead, sir."

"Lately so?"

"My father died when I was an infant; I never knew him. My mother perished two years ago."

"Was your mother ever in service?"

"She worked as cook to Mrs. Seebright."

"She never went abroad with her?"

"No sir."

It occurred to Joshua that though her replies did not entirely tally with what he knew of Charles Mercier's daughter, there was plenty in her family history that fit. But if she was the claimant for the necklace, she was an accomplished actress, for she gave no flicker to indicate that she had other reasons for being here. If only there were a sample of her handwriting to be seen, he could resolve the matter instantly. Joshua decided to press more roughly. "Are you personally acquainted with Mr. Bentnick?"

She looked up from her work and her complexion seemed to turn a shade paler. "I am not sure what you mean, Mr. Pope. I have told you the nature of my acquaintance with the family. Mrs. Mercier and her daughter are my customers. Mr. Bentnick has naught to do with it. I am adjusting his breeches as a favor; under usual circ.u.mstances his tailor would do it."

Joshua stood up. He was puzzled by her vehement tone. He knew there was more to her relationship with Herbert than she admitted, and yet she hadn't the demeanor of a liar. He moved a little closer to her and stood next to the table on which the book was resting. "You told me about your dealings with the ladies in the Bentnick family, but that doesn't mean you haven't worked for the gentlemen. I should like to know, does Mr. Herbert Bentnick often avail himself of your ... services ... in town?"

The pause and the look he gave her made his meaning as clear as springwater. She stopped her work and raised her eyes to his. As she did so, he saw her expression transform from puzzlement to shame. Her hand began to tremble; she bit her lip. "I am not entirely sure of your meaning, Mr. Pope, but you may rest a.s.sured there has never been anything improper in my relations with Mr. Bentnick, nor indeed with any one of my patrons."

"Then may I be so bold as to ask why, less than two weeks ago, you were observed entering a house off Floral Street, and minutes later, Mr. Bentnick was also seen to enter the same premises? You were then observed in intimate conversation with Mr. Bentnick in a room on the first floor. Do not think me overzealous or prying, Mrs. Bowles, but as I have already made clear, in view of the fact that a man is dead and a valuable jewel has gone missing, I must press you for an honest response."

Her pale blue eyes grew round as marbles. Her lips worked as though she would speak, and yet for several moments no utterance came. When at last she managed to compose herself sufficiently to speak, her voice trembled with emotion.

"I do not know who has provided you with this malignant slander," said she, with what vestige of dignity she could muster, "but I can a.s.sure you my character has been most unjustly traduced. There is a confidence I would have preferred not to break, but since you appear intent upon besmirching my reputation, I will tell you. Nothing untoward has taken place between Mr. Bentnick and me. Nothing whatsoever. He has paid several visits to me at my residence, in order to commission two ball gowns-one is a surprise for Mrs. Mercier, the other is for his daughter."

Joshua was taken aback and not entirely convinced. He looked down at the book again. "If that was all, what reason did he have to visit your private dwelling?"

"He didn't wish Violet to catch him. He is a man of great generosity and kindness. He didn't want the surprise to be spoiled."

Her outrage and mortification seemed genuine. Joshua reached down and opened the book's cover. The handwriting was small and regular, a copperplate hand. It was nothing like the writing on the letters. She couldn't be the claimant. He was about to apologize for upsetting her, but before he had a chance to make amends, he heard the pounding of heavy footsteps and a voice bellowing his name. An instant later the door burst open. Francis Bentnick stood there, his face red and moist, his straw-colored hair plastered to his forehead. "Mr. Pope," he bl.u.s.tered, "you must come at once. A terrible tragedy has taken place."

Chapter Thirty-eight.

CAROLINE BENTNICK was dead. Granger had found her lying at the entrance to the pinery beneath the glazed cupola, some half hour or so after Joshua had left him. By the time Joshua arrived at the scene, the rest of the family were gathered outside the pinery door, shock and distress etched on their faces. Herbert hovered on the threshold while Francis and Joshua went inside, where they found Granger keeping vigil over the body. Granger looked unusually agitated. He caught Joshua's eye as if there were something pressing he wished to say, but he didn't want to speak in front of the others.

The corpse remained as he had discovered it: sprawled face upward on the path, one arm outstretched, the other lying across her breast. Joshua was entirely unprepared for the ferocity of Caroline's expression. Her wide lips were drawn back in a strange grimace; her tongue, purple and swollen, protruded. Her eyes were gla.s.sy and open and seemed more bulbous than he remembered; the whites were visible, as if she had looked up to heaven at the moment of death.

Even more shocking than the wild strangeness of her face was the collar of glittering green around her neck. The serpent necklace had returned as a terrible talisman of death to the person who detested it most. It was wrapped about her throat, its single ruby eye winking malevolently.

"Sir," whispered Granger urgently, "there's something-"

"Yes, yes, Granger. All in good time. Just let me look first, if you please." Death, violent death, once more. He looked at Caroline and he saw his wife: Rachel's soaked body, Rachel's wrinkled flesh. Kneeling by her side, his head swam with horror and unreality. He clawed at the ground for support.

It was that gesture-and the sensation of soil beneath his hands-that somehow restored him.

The links of the necklace were speckled with soil. Holding the necklace to one side, he saw that etched upon Caroline's neck was a livid circle of bruising, the sort of mark that a noose might make.

The necklace had been placed there after she was strangled.

He noticed that her right hand, which lay across her, was clenched. He gently pried it open. There were faint soil marks across her palm.

He turned to Granger. "I presume what you want to tell me concerns the necklace?"

"When I found her, her hand was closed and across her neck. I lifted it, and the necklace dropped out, as you see it now."

Joshua nodded wordlessly. What possible reason could there be for such a killing? Was the necklace merely disguising the wound, or did it serve as some macabre adornment? Had the necklace been buried and then dug up? Was the murderer of Caroline the murderer of Bartholomew h.o.a.re? If this was so, Cobb was innocent.

He compared the two methods of killing: poisoning and strangulation. Poisoning seemed the easier of the two. Anyone, man or woman, weak or strong, might administer poison. But to kill Caroline Bentnick in such a manner required considerable force. Joshua stood up and looked down at the body. The clothes were not unduly disarranged; there was no evidence of a struggle. She must have been taken by surprise. And yet there was that ghastly look on her facea look of recognition, surely.

"Tell me, Granger, how you happened to find her."

"There's not much to tell, sir. I entered the pinery in order to tend to the plants and check the heat, and there she lay. I could hardly miss her."

"How long ago was this?"

"About ten, fifteen minutes at the most, sir."

"And you saw and heard nothing untoward prior to that?"

"Nothing in particular that I recall, sir."

"So you didn't see Miss Bentnick when she entered the pinery?"

"No sir."

"And where were you immediately before you came here just now?"

"Over there, sir, by the melon frames." He pointed to a spot some twenty feet from where they stood. The frames were partly concealed by a trellis, up which a cuc.u.mber scrambled; apart from this obstruction there was a clear view of the pinery.

"So if anyone had pa.s.sed, you should have seen them?"

"I suppose so, sir, but in truth I was kneeling down, tending the plants. It is possible someone could have pa.s.sed without my noticing. Also, I was only there for ten minutes or so. Before that, I was attending to matters on the other side of the house. If someone had entered then I wouldn't have seen them."

"In that case, perhaps you would be good enough to go and question your men and discover if they remarked anything unusual."

Granger nodded and left. Joshua turned back to the face with its dreadful contorted expression. He remembered the fear she had expressed that evening in the drawing room. He remembered, too, the kindness she had displayed toward him and Bridget. He felt ashamed that he had felt no glimmer of foreboding when she failed to arrive for their appointment. Perhaps if he had, and had gone in search of her, he could have prevented her death.

The words she had spoken the previous day rang in his ears. She had something to tell him concerning h.o.a.re and had said so in front of all those a.s.sembled on the terrace. Had this innocent remark thrown her into peril? If so, the murderer was one of those on the terrace.

This notion so distressed him that he could hardly consider it objectively. Then another thought came to him. If Caroline had been killed because the murderer feared being identified by her, would his own involvement place his life in danger? Was he next?

Still gripping the necklace in his fist, he pushed past Francis, desperate to get outside.

Violet and Lizzie were standing together close to the door. Lizzie was crying quietly, holding a handkerchief to her eyes. Violet looked tremulous but had thus far managed to control her tears. She was fluttering a pink silk fan in front of her face. A short distance off, a cl.u.s.ter of three or four undergardeners had gathered to wait for Granger-who now advanced toward them.

Herbert and Sabine stood apart from the rest. Herbert's face was pinched and pale. His shoulders trembled and his eyes gleamed with suppressed anguish. Sabine held his hand in both of hers and rubbed it gently, but all the time she looked about with jerky, wary movements that reminded Joshua of a bird about to take flight.

Joshua steeled himself and went over to Herbert. "I believe, sir, that this is the missing necklace," he said. "I am only sorry that I have to restore it to you in such unhappy circ.u.mstances."

Herbert took the jewel and handed it to Sabine. "What does this signify, Pope? I beg that you will explain it to me." He spoke in an expressionless monotone. Joshua had never seen him look so subdued or uncertain. He seemed dazed, as if he had lost all sense of who he was.

"I don't know who did this, but I do know my poor sister has been killed by that accursed jewel," whispered Francis Bentnick before Joshua had a chance to reply. He fixed his gaze on Sabine, as if wordlessly accusing her.

"What do you mean?" said Joshua.

"Isn't it plain?"

His gaze was locked on Sabine. Then his shoulders began to tremble violently. Violet approached the group and threaded her arm through Francis's. "I confess I am utterly confused," she said quietly. "Caroline always claimed to despise it, but if she was not responsible for the necklace's disappearance, why is the jewel now recovered?"

Francis shook off her arm. "Impossible! I won't even honor such a dreadful notion by refuting it," he cried.

Joshua tried to prevail upon them to be reasonable in their grief. "It seems most probable to me that the thief and the murderer of Mr. h.o.a.re and Miss Bentnick are one and the same. The a.s.sa.s.sin feared Caroline knew his or her ident.i.ty and probably killed her now because the opportunity presented itself," he said. "In any event, I believe the reason for her death was something she said yesterday which may have made the killer believe she knew more than she did."

"What's this?" said Herbert, looking up. "What did she say?"

"First, sir, I would like to pose a question. I believe you have had some correspondence with the other claimant for the necklace, a letter threatening to remove the jewel if you didn't cooperate with her wishes. Who wrote it?"

"How do you know the letter threatened me? Have you been among my private papers?"

"He has," said Lizzie between sobs. "I was there and saw the letter. Forgive me, Mr. Bentnick. It was only my concern for my brother made me desperate to involve myself with him."

"That letter may lead us to the murderer of your daughter, sir. Surely that is more important than whether I read a letter that you should have showed me," said Joshua quietly.

"What a fool you are, Pope. I don't know who wrote the letter. If I did, would I have asked you to find the jewel? I could have gone straight to the claimant myself. Now, tell me, before I also commit murder, what it was my daughter said that made her the victim of this crime."

Joshua dared not let slip that the maid, Marie, had shown him the letter sent to Sabine arranging a meeting with the claimant; he didn't want to cost Marie her job. Perhaps Herbert was telling the truth when he said he didn't know who she was, but Sabine, who had said nothing, certainly did.

"Yesterday she claimed she had remembered something she wanted to tell me. She said she would come to my room at ten this morning and tell me what it was. Most of the household, apart from you, sir, were present when she made this arrangement. She never came."

Herbert pulled himself up so that he seemed to tower over Joshua like a man-of-war looming over a longboat. "Then it was you who caused her death. Yet again it was you, Pope. You have brought about this great tragedy."

"No sir," protested Joshua, "she pa.s.sed the remark without provocation from me."

"Nevertheless," said Herbert, desperate to blame someone for his misery, "if you had not insisted that the matter of h.o.a.re's death was linked to the necklace, none of this would have happened. I told you to find the necklace. I did not want to provoke a further murder. Let alone that of my only daughter."

"It was hardly my intention to do so," said Joshua, consumed with remorse and aware that Herbert's onslaught contained a certain dreadful logic.

"And as it transpires, the disappearance of the necklace had nothing to do with h.o.a.re's death."

"I still cannot be certain of that," replied Joshua, looking penetratingly at Sabine, who ignored him, "although I believe I may be close ..."

"However close you are, do not expect to progress further with my blessing. I say again, your meddling with h.o.a.re and Cobb has resulted in the death of my daughter. You have enjoyed my forbearance long enough. The portrait must by now be practically finished-I have never known an artist to procrastinate like you. You can complete it in your own premises. Remove yourself from Astley forthwith."

Joshua was aghast. "But, sir, I believe I am close to discovering the reason for these strange events. I beg you, let me remain here one more night."

"One more night be d.a.m.ned! You have brought about a calamity. I planned a ball, but now I must hold a funeral. Your services are no longer required."

"In that case, pardon my freedom, but I earnestly entreat you to summon an officer of justice to look into this. If Miss Manning's father is still absent, then call the constable. There is a murderer in your midst and you ignore that fact at your peril."

"Pope," said Francis, intervening on his father's behalf, "do not make matters worse by arguing. We have suffered a family tragedy. What we do is our business, not yours. It is only right that you comply with my father's desire."

Rocked by his perfunctory dismissal, Joshua had no option but to acknowledge defeat. There was such glaring danger here, how could they ignore it? Why did Sabine not confess she knew the claimant's ident.i.ty? He glanced toward her again, but she refused to meet his eye. He bowed curtly to them all. "Let me in parting offer my condolences for these terrible events. If at any juncture you change your mind and desire that I should pursue them for you, I would willingly do so."

Sabine at last deigned to speak. She shot a baleful look in his direction, "Thank you, Mr. Pope, but I believe you have done quite enough. More will not be necessary."

AS JOSHUA returned dolefully to the house, it seemed to him that destiny had played him a cruel hand. The charge of theft had been replaced by one of precipitating the death of Caroline Bentnick. Even though he recognized this as a misjudgment, the accusation wounded him because in his heart he felt culpable. If he hadn't looked into h.o.a.re's death, if she hadn't mentioned his wretched name, she might be alive still. He wished he had never agreed to set foot in that house, never picked up a brush to paint the wretched Bentnick portrait.

He packed his possessions and equipment, his thoughts in turmoil, ricocheting between relief at leaving this strange, unhappy house, a sense of failure in quitting under such a cloud, and a heavy burden of guilt. Also, he no longer knew if his reputation was salvaged, or irrefutably condemned. What would Herbert do? Despite having discovered the necklace, he feared Herbert's wrath-or worse, that he might publicly condemn his conduct.

In between retrieving Cobb's bag from its hiding place and giving orders for the packing of canvas and stretcher and easel and paints, he searched for Lizzie Manning. When he finally met her on the stairs he reminded her not be so foolish as to venture into the grotto in search of her brother without Granger as escort. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he feared Arthur Manning might be responsible for the death of Caroline and the mysterious return of the necklace, but no sooner had he finished the first part of his speech than she thanked him coolly and walked off with her nose in the air, as if she were examining the moldings on the ceiling. A few minutes later she was back, wanting to know what had become of Cobb's bag.

"I have undertaken to return it to him. Its whereabouts are no concern of yours," he replied coldly.

"So you lied to me the other night when you said you had already given it to him. I thought as much."

"You too have been less than honest with me, madam. It is not customary in any circles I know for a young lady to enter a gentleman's rooms in the dead of night and search them."