Stephanie Barron

by The White Garden (v5)

  “Ah,” Peter said. “That’s helpful, thank you. It looks… very well tended.”

  “Better than when the Wolves were here. That’s what I call them. Leonard and Virginia. They were perpetually short on funds. Used an earth closet, if you can believe it—no running water. All the effort went into the garden.” She set the grocery bag on the bonnet of the car and went round to the boot. Peter and Jo exchanged glances. Time to scarper.

  The girl was engaged in lifting a suitcase to the ground. Another was firmly wedged near the spare tire.

  “Can we be of help?”

  “That’d be brilliant—thanks.”

  Peter hefted the second case from the boot, took the other in his free hand, and said smoothly, “Lead on.”

  She led.

  There was a back gate to the property, and a path to a second gate in the walled garden; she opened this with some difficulty, the iron hasp being long since rusted into obduracy. “It’s just through here,” she said. “You can drop the cases at the back door—I’ll fetch them in.”

  Peter set down the luggage carefully on the brick path and dusted his hands. Jo was trailing along behind, her eyes on the autumnal remains of the mixed borders. Leonard’s tastes had run to the exotic, it seemed—if indeed the plantings were representative of those that had grown in his day.

  “Unfortunate that the house is closed,” Peter remarked. “We drove down from Cambridge on purpose to see it.”

  “Cambridge? Which college?”

  “King’s,” Jo said automatically.

  “I’ve a mate at Magdalene,” the girl offered. “I’m Lucy, by the way.”

  “Peter. And that’s Jo.” He held out his hand. “Well, we won’t keep you. Enjoy your time here.”

  “Thanks. I’ll probably be stark, staring mad in another week—they’ll have to scrape me off the floor of the Arms.”

  “Not keen on solitude?”

  She stared at him, her lips slightly parted. “In this place? It’s the end of the earth. I only agreed to house-sit again because I had the loan of the car. As soon as I start talking to myself, I’m off to Lewes for the evening.”

  “Smashing,” Peter murmured. “Well, Jo, it’s a pity we came on the wrong day—but we’ll just have to see the place on your next trip to England.”

  “Whenever that is,” Jo mourned. She gave Lucy a brave smile.

  “Are you American?” the girl asked.

  “Yes. I’m from L.A.,” Jo invented, remembering Ter. “California. Hollywood. You’ve heard of it?”

  “I should say so!” Lucy said scornfully. “Not that I think much of the place, mind. The way those people treat poor Posh and Becks. It’s inhuman.”

  “He should never have left West Ham,” Peter observed.

  “You mean Manchester United.”

  “Yes, well, I’m heading back tomorrow,” Jo persisted. “And the whole point of my trip, really, was to see Virginia’s house.”

  “You’re having me on,” Lucy said.

  As they were undoubtedly lying through their teeth, Jo was momentarily flummoxed by this comment, but Peter said hastily, “It’s true. Jo’s life dream has been to stand in this very spot. She’s a writer, you know.”

  “Oh. Books,” said Lucy dispiritedly.

  “Movies, actually. That’s why I live in LA. We’re thinking of doing something on Virginia. Sort of like The Hours, only less…”

  “Dreary.” The girl eyed Jo suspiciously, as if uncertain whether to believe her, and said: “Ever met Brangelina, then?”

  Jo shook her head regretfully. “But my friend’s niece was one of their nannies. They have several, you know.”

  “Well, they would, wouldn’t they?”

  “Jo, we really should be going.” Peter’s voice was that of the long-suffering Englishman forced to endure more Hollywood gossip than anyone should, over the past few days.

  Lucy licked her lips and glanced hurriedly over one shoulder, as though the ghost of the Woolfs might be watching. “Look, if you’d like to come in for a few minutes—it seems a shame, you’ve come all this way…”

  “Really?” Jo cried. Without waiting for an answer, she bounded forward and hugged the girl impulsively. “You’re just too sweet. I’ll never forget this. It’ll make my whole trip worthwhile!”

  “I’ve always wanted to see California, myself,” Lucy said. Her cheeks were flushed and hectic, like a nineteenth-century consumptive’s.

  IT WAS A SMALL, LOW-CEILINGED PLACE LIT BY ONLY A FEW windows; and the pervading sense was of green: green shadows, green walls, faded wood the color of slate, chairs sagging from use. It was a restful house; but inescapably of a period—impossible to imagine Lucy’s friends truly living here. It was probable, Jo thought, that the caretakers had a modern apartment somewhere on the premises. It would not do to betray nosiness, and ask.

  Lucy was chattering on about a Jennifer—there were so many possibilities with that name, it might be Lopez or Aniston; Jo murmured something about Madonna, and diverted her immediately.

  A succession of tables filled the sitting room; Jo could imagine books stacked and spread out to be read, or manuscript pages fluttering. A pot of tea and a plate of something simple—Virginia was a notoriously spare eater, an anorexic, probably. There was a poky old kitchen and two bedrooms. Virginia’s sitting room was closed to the public.

  “In good weather, she liked to write in what she called the Lodge—the old gardener’s hut at the bottom of the garden,” Peter murmured.

  Jo followed his gaze through the back window and saw it: a perfect little room of one’s own, with a porch.

  “One of the suicide notes was found there. On her desk.”

  “Why kill yourself,” Jo asked wistfully, “when you’ve got all this?”

  Lucy was hovering, probably regretting her impulse to let them in; Jo smiled at her encouragingly. “Who’s your favorite British actor?”

  And received a disquisition on several raffish young men of dubious sexual orientation.

  Peter was bent over a glass case, studying some pictures. There were albums, too, all of them very old. “Jo,” he said. “Still have that photocopy from Charleston?”

  “The mural?”

  “The group snap.”

  She fished in her purse and drew it out.

  “I thought so. There’s another version of the same people displayed here—only they’re named, this time.”

  She looked from her photograph to Peter’s. It was dated 1936. Quentin Bell, Maynard Keynes, she read; Roger Fry, Clive Bell, Julian Bell, Anthony Blunt. The final figure was Leonard Woolf; thin and spare even in his middle period, his nose strong as a ship’s prow, his hair swept back from a broad forehead. The most interesting face in the bunch—besides Virginia’s suffering one.

  “Lucy,” Peter said firmly, “you’ve been too lovely—but we mustn’t trespass any longer. Enjoy your evening in Lewes. Try not to go mad amongst all these ghosts.”

  “I won’t charge you entry fees,” the girl said tentatively. “It being a Closed Day. I wouldn’t like to have to explain to the Trust.”

  “Very right,” Peter agreed. He slipped her a ten-pound note. “Have a pint or two at the Arms, won’t you? With our thanks?”

  GRAY EXPECTED MARGAUX TO KEEP HIM WAITING that Wednesday evening. Still, he arrived at Bar 190 a few minutes early; ordered a very dry gin martini; and sank back against the dark oak paneling. He was adept at stillness, and in his charcoal-colored jacket and simple white shirt he might have disappeared into the crowd. It was his composure, however, that drew attention. Most men, left alone with a drink, would have immediately accessed their BlackBerries and trolled through email, or dialed someone on a cell phone. Gray simply sat, one hand lying casually on the table before him, the other thoughtfully stroking the stem of his martini glass. His self-containment suggested he was somebody; and it is possible that more than one person drinking at the Gore Hotel that evening wondered who.

  Margaux h
ad left her contact number on the document she’d signed that morning. It was a simple matter to persuade her to meet for drinks; and Gray let her choose the bar. He knew that posed a difficulty: How to guess what Gray liked? Or what would impress him? What could appear too tawdry, too hip, too cheap? He expected Margaux to settle for the obvious and safe choice of the Connaught itself—and was pleased when she didn’t.

  And there she was: Dramatic in black and red, a variation on the theme of the morning. Black matte jersey wrap dress, the hemline well above her knees; black leather boots almost reaching them. A red swing coat. Her black hair falling nearly to her waist in a mass of waves. She was a gorgeous woman, without question—but Gray was unmoved. He had seen so many gorgeous women before. They always knew their worth—and expected it to buy them more than it did. His lips quirked slightly as he thought of a woman who remained unforgettable, despite being long gone: His mother, Barbara. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, she used to say. Meaning: If she’s gorgeous, she’s probably lacking a soul. Or a heart. Or a mind. It was rare to find all three, and beauty, too, in the same person. Although Barbara Westlake had certainly managed it.

  Gray raised his glass to her memory as Margaux swept toward him, turning heads all through Bar 190. She ignored them. She turned heads every day.

  “Gray.” She extended a hand but didn’t lean in, as he expected, to brush his cheek with hers. “Sorry I’m late—my last meeting ran hideously long, but then they always do.”

  He suspected she’d spent the hours since he’d last seen her shopping. How many changes of clothing could she have brought, realistically, for a single morning appointment? But perhaps he wronged her. Perhaps, as she clearly intended him to think, her life was one long series of important commitments. Or maybe she kept a flat in London filled with black and red clothes.

  “Please. Sit down.” A waiter had already materialized. “What would you like?”

  “Pellegrino and a lime,” she said briskly. “I can’t afford to be muddle-headed when talking to the smartest man in the room.”

  And now she certainly had surprised him.

  Gray slid his glass to one side of the table and studied her.

  She studied him frankly in return. “Although I should like to take the compliment, I don’t reckon you met me here tonight on the strength of my good looks. Am I right?”

  “Not solely on the strength of your good looks. No.”

  That won a smile. “Excellent. It gets so old, that sort of thing.”

  “Male admiration?”

  “Male underestimation.” She turned her head slightly as the Pellegrino appeared, and reached for it with one long-fingered hand. “I’ve spent years persuading a world populated by males that I’ve a brain inside this head of mine.”

  “You could always cut your hair,” he suggested.

  “That’s just another way of losing the battle, isn’t it? Why scarify myself to be taken seriously?”

  The bar was beginning to fill; a steady buzz of voices made it necessary to shout. Gray had no desire to broadcast his message to the better part of London; he spoke at a normal level. As he’d hoped, Margaux leaned toward him.

  “You’re correct in thinking I wanted to talk to you. Without the rest of those folks from this morning pitching in.”

  She nodded, waiting.

  “I want to know why Jo Bellamy gave you that notebook.”

  Margaux frowned. “Surely I told you? My ex-husband is a Book Expert. He brought it to me to be verified.”

  “Understood. But that doesn’t explain why you still had it this morning. I’m surprised Jo parted with the thing. It’s very important to her.”

  Margaux’s eyes slid away; she shrugged slightly, a beautiful movement, her breasts rising slightly with her sculpted shoulders in a fluid shift of jersey. “Peter—my ex—can be fairly vague. I think we agreed to talk over the next several days. I merely kept the notebook with me for safety’s sake.”

  “And handed it off without a second thought to Marcus Symonds-Jones.”

  “Well, he is Peter’s bloody employer!”

  “Have you talked to your ex? Since Monday?”

  She took a sip of Pellegrino, buying time. “Actually, no, I haven’t. May I ask what this tends towards, Gray? An examination of my mobile-use habits, or of the status of my divorce?”

  She was attempting umbrage, a mood that suited her; it went well with the flowing hair and chocolate eyes.

  “Why were you in Cambridge last night?”

  “I’m often in Cambridge. I’m a don.”

  Gray held her gaze. “Somehow I don’t think you were showing the notebook to a colleague. This is too important to share.”

  Her lip curled. “Too bloody well right.”

  “—Even with the people who gave it to you: Jo, and your ex-husband.”

  For once, she had no answer.

  “What do you think they’re doing, right now? Why haven’t they come back to London?”

  “Why do you care so much?”

  Gray eased back in his seat, his fingers still caressing the stem of his martini glass. “I understand your hesitation to be frank with me—after all, we only met ten hours ago—but I confess I’m surprised that you’re lying to Marcus. He could cut off your access to the material completely. Should he learn of it.”

  “I’m not lying!” Her voice had risen; she was leaning so far over the table toward him, she was nearly prone. In other circumstances, he would have enjoyed this view of her cleavage. In this case, he kept his eyes steadily on her face and held a finger to his lips. A warning. Steady.

  She glanced sidelong, then raised herself upright. “I took the effing notebook Monday night and told Peter I’d give it back in the morning. Only I decided to go to Cambridge instead.”

  “Why?”

  “You saw that there are pages missing from the back?”

  “Maybe Woolf didn’t like what she wrote.”

  “I doubt it. I think someone else edited that manuscript for her. There’s a tantalizing phrase scribbled on the inside of the back cover. Peter saw it, too, I’m sure he did—a sort of envoi. A clue. In any case, I thought it possible the rest of the manuscript was hidden for a reason. And that it might be found.”

  “At Cambridge?”

  “Cambridge was supposed to tell me where to look. But I’m not as good at solving puzzles as Peter is—making abstruse connections. I’m better at emotional analysis.”

  Abstruse connections. Gray’s pulse had suddenly accelerated. Peter Llewellyn was hunting for the rest of the notebook. And Jo with him.

  “It’s frustrating to see the possibilities and lack the technique,” Margaux was saying. “Honestly, I was ready to chuck the whole thing in the River Cam when Marcus called.”

  “But you decided instead to make the best of a… partial… situation.”

  “Exactly.” She placed her hands on the table, fingers linked. “I don’t want cash, Gray. I’m not in it for a payoff. This isn’t about greed.”

  “Of a financial kind.”

  “It’s about access,” she pushed on, ignoring his gibe. “I want exclusive rights to this new material—no sharing, for the first time in my entire career. Marcus has the power to stipulate my terms—you have the power to grant them.”

  Gray frowned. “Limit access to information? That’s profoundly un-American. I’m not sure I can agree.”

  “You already signed a paper to that effect this morning.”

  “Paper, as we’ve seen, can be torn in half.”

  Margaux’s teeth worried at her lower lip. “Tell me you’ve never closed communications about a deal you’ve decided to make. A fund you intend to set up. A client whose millions you’ve decided to squander. I won’t believe you.”

  “But in those cases I control the deal. It’s a closed system, like playing tug-of-war with both ends of the rope. You, unfortunately, have got only one.”

  She stared at him. “Now we come to it. Your terms. Wha
t is it you want, Mr. Graydon Westlake? How much body and soul do I have to sell?”

  “I want you to drink this martini,” he replied, sliding it across the table toward her. “And then I want you to call your ex-husband.”

  PETER AND JO WALKED BACK TO THE ABERGAVENNY Arms feeling as though every eye in the small village of Rodmell was upon them. Jo succeeded in looking over her shoulder only once; Lucy was not, as she’d feared, posted in Monk’s House’s front door staring balefully after them.

  “I’d make a lousy criminal.”

  “It’s all in the practice,” Peter said impatiently. “I’m sure you’d take to it, with time. Look at Anthony Blunt, for God’s sake. Right there in the Monk’s House display case, innocent as a lamb. Nobody suspected him.”

  “Who’s Anthony Blunt?” Jo demanded, bewildered.

  “An Apostle to end all Apostles. And one of the Cambridge Five.”

  “I thought there were twelve.”

  “No, no—the Cambridge Five,” Peter insisted, as though repeating the phrase might make it comprehensible. “Surely you’ve heard of them?”

  “I know the Jackson Five, but…”

  “Oh, Christ. Burgess and Maclean? Ring a bell?”

  “I’m sorry. Were they theater people?”

  “They were spies,” he said with immense patience. “Double agents. In the pay of the Soviets. For most of the Cold War. Kim Philby? Heard of him? I won’t even ask about John Cairncross.”

  “Philby sounds familiar,” Jo offered tentatively. “But isn’t he American?”

  Peter sighed. “Look—Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean defected to the Soviet Union in the early fifties. They’d been up at Cambridge together, and Burgess was an Apostle. He was also one of the more flamboyant sons of King’s. Part of a group of Golden Youth that cut their political teeth in the age of Fascism, and the Spanish Civil War—”

  “Like Vanessa’s son. Julian Bell.”