The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf

by Стефани Баррон

  He walked on, heading south down the Strand toward the river. The absolute dark of a north European night was falling swiftly over the city; London was all black cabs, shining headlights, the sudden stab of neon. It was rare for Gray to be entirely alone — he hired people, he married them, in order to avoid solitude — but tonight the loneliness was welcome. It clarified his thoughts.

  What was Peter Llewellyn like? What spell had he cast over Jo?

  What does he have that I don’t?

  There was a restaurant just opposite — a simple sign, a sheltered doorway: RULES. Gray thought vaguely that he’d heard of it before. A steak, perhaps. A double scotch on the rocks. The table tucked into a fold of drapery, no one but the waiter coming near.

  He would eat a good meal. Think things over. Then go back to the Connaught and ask them to hold all calls. He would fire up his laptop and compose an email — a private one, to the head of his investment firm’s research department.

  Find out all there is to know about Margaux Strand, Oxford professor, and Peter Llewellyn, Sotheby’s employee, before nine A.M. Greenwich Mean Time.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “HERE.” PETER SHIFTED HIS CHAIR AROUND SO THAT Jo could view the computer screen. “That’s our boy. Jan Willem Ter Braak. Found shot to death in an air raid shelter here in Cambridge, of all places, on the first of April, 1941.”

  Peter had accessed the online archives of The Times while they waited for Indian curry at an Internet café. He was drinking beer, while Jo opted for white Burgundy; the smell of roast chicken and yams was making her mouth water.

  She focused on the death notice; it was extremely brief. Dutchman Apparent Suicide, ran the headline. The body had been discovered on the morning of April 1, 1941, with a gun beside it. Jan Willem Ter Braak was described as a Dutch refugee resident in England since the British evacuation of Dunkirk. No other details of the death were mentioned. Anyone with information regarding Ter Braak, the paper suggested, should inquire at the Cambridge police station.

  “Not very useful, is it?” Peter observed.

  “An air raid shelter! Weird place to commit suicide. How’d he know it’d be empty? — We have to assume it was empty, right? The article doesn’t mention any witnesses.”

  “It doesn’t mention much at all.”

  A waiter set down a plate of flatbreads, topped up Jo’s water glass, and left a trail of wet spots over the plastic table. She tore into a pappadam; steam burst from the center.

  Peter was at his keyboard again. “Here’s a Wikipedia entry on the same fellow.”

  “He’s that famous?”

  “He wasn’t Dutch at all. He was a German agent named Engelbertus Fukken.”

  “No wonder he preferred Jan. So you’re saying he was a Nazi spy?”

  “Rather. The article says Ter Braak parachuted into England six months or so before he killed himself. He took rooms in Cambridge, claiming to be a Dutch national evacuated with British forces from Dunkirk.”

  “But why kill himself if he was supposed to spy? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Apparently he ran out of money at the end of March ’41 and couldn’t stick it.”

  “Because he was broke?” Jo frowned. “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t seem very James Bondish to me. Couldn’t he have robbed a bank?”

  “Maybe he was afraid he’d be caught. And forced to betray the Reich. So he took the gentleman’s way out.”

  “In an air raid shelter. That was unusually empty.”

  Peter seemed determined to ignore her contempt. “Here’s something odd. Ter Braak went missing from his boarding-house on the twenty-ninth of March.”

  “The same day our journal begins.”

  Peter looked at her. “But the body wasn’t found for three days.”

  “It can’t have been lying in the shelter all that time,” Jo said decisively. “So Jan was somewhere else. And he definitely didn’t shoot himself. He was kidnapped, killed, and finally dumped in that shelter April first.”

  Peter gazed at her pityingly. “Is it American, this need for drama? You never accept the obvious solution, do you? It’s all conspiracy, in your mind. The national disease, where you come from.”

  “That’s unfair.” Jo took a bite of warm bread. There was a photograph in the Wikipedia file, grainy and indistinct. Ter Braak was curled like a question mark on what looked like a tiled floor, clumps of dirt or perhaps concrete lying around him. His hair was dark. His face was visible in profile, left cheek uppermost; blood trailed over his mouth, to pool on the tile beneath him. He wore a trench coat and what Jo guessed might be a fedora hat, still perched near his head. Gloves. Black leather shoes. Pin-striped wool trousers. It seemed incongruous, all this bundled clothing, this need to protect against a cold that was now eternal. The gun lay on the tile almost too correctly, at a right angle to the limp hand.

  Her mouthful of bread was suddenly difficult to swallow; she could not look at the body of this dead stranger without remembering Jock. She coughed, turned away, and felt Peter’s hand rest lightly on her hair.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No,” she managed. “But don’t let that stop you. Why would the Nazis send this guy to Cambridge, anyway?”

  “No idea.” Peter was studying her frankly, a question in his eyes. “I suppose the university was of interest to the Reich — there’s the Cavendish Laboratory, where some of the early atomic-bomb research went on.”

  “It all sounds fishy,” Jo declared. She was determined to focus on Ter Braak, not the memory of Jock’s dead face. “We’re not getting the whole story.”

  “Agreed. This entry says that the details of the suicide, and the fact that Ter Braak was a German agent, were suppressed until after the war — the government didn’t want to admit they’d let a spy run loose for so long. I imagine what few facts we’re reading are the ones they chose to publish.”

  “Exactly. It’s an official version. And I’m not saying that just because I’m American. We know from Harold Nicolson’s letter that this… suicide was somehow linked to Virginia. And to J. M. Keynes. And to his Cambridge friends.”

  “Has it occurred to you,” Peter broke in, “that you have a major problem with suicide? You shove it straight out of your mind, like a child who can’t bear to look under her bed.”

  She glared at him, open-mouthed. “Damn straight I do!”

  “But that’s just foolish. Look — ” He leaned toward her, elbows draped anyhow on the restaurant table. “You seem to find your grandfather’s death a personal challenge, a glove thrown smack in your face. When it’s nothing like that. Sometimes ending one’s life is just a decision. A final moment of chosen closure. It’s about self-control, autonomy. I’ve always regarded Woolf’s drowning in that vein — she was a middle-aged woman who fancied she could see the future, and it wasn’t the one she wanted. Sure, the act leaves unspeakable pain in its wake. But that doesn’t mean you caused it. Why are you clutching so tightly to this notion you failed Jock Bellamy?”

  “Because…” She swallowed, shrugged hopelessly. “I should have stopped him. I should have seen how unhappy he was.”

  “Was he unhappy for a long time?”

  “Not that I could tell. I was clueless enough to think he was fine. But then I told him — ” She glanced away, her eyes filling with tears. “I told him, back in August, that I’d been hired to copy the White Garden. I was incredibly pumped about the job, you know? I mean, this was probably the biggest coup of my career. I’ve only been in business for myself for three years, and Gray’s a huge client, huge. So I called up Jock and said I was flying to England to visit Sissinghurst in a couple months’ time. He’d always been the guy who celebrated most for me, when things went well. He said all the right things. He was pleased and excited for me.”

  “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.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  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 orig
inal 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?”