Стефани Баррон - The White Garden - A Novel of Virginia Woolf

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.

“You bastard.” Imogen thrust herself to her feet, her face blooming red. “Taking my part in that auction house, so you could nose into my business. Putting me up in your fancy hotel, then showing me the door. Life’s too easy for the likes of you. I hope that Jo Bellamy makes a complete fool of you.”

She was searching hopelessly for her handbag, which Margaux knew was resting on a shield-back chair in the front entry; rage or perhaps tears were blinding Imogen to the obvious. Marcus rose solicitously from his seat but it was Gray Westlake who placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and said, “Please don’t go.”

She shrugged him off. “I’m not likely to stay where I’m threatened with the police.”

This was so patently hilarious that Margaux snorted.

“Miss Cantwell,” Gray persisted, “we’re trying to save you from yourself.”

Something in his tone stopped her at last. She went still, studying him, and then with a sudden expulsion of breath, like a child done sobbing, she sank back down on the sofa. “What is it you want?”

“A few days. Three, maybe four.”

“That’s what she said. And it turned into a whole bloody week!”

“But the manuscript is back in safe hands. To convince you it’s safe, and to limit your liability, I propose — ” Gray glanced for confirmation at Marcus — “we write up a series of brief statements everyone can sign. Mr. Symonds-Jones will acknowledge receipt of the notebook itself, over his signature; Dr. Strand will state her professional opinion as to its authenticity — ”

“ — and receive in return an assurance of exclusive access to the material for a period of five years,” Margaux bargained smoothly, “and an exclusive appointment as Manuscript Consultant during any publicity campaign that might follow the notebook’s authentication.”

“Hasty, hasty,” Marcus murmured.

“But small pence, when without my aid and concern you’d never have set eyes on the thing,” Margaux retorted.

“And I get sod-all,” Imogen muttered, “just a nod and pat on the bottom as you shove me back to Kent. What I’d like to know is what you get out of this, Westlake?”

“The satisfaction of preserving your job.” He smiled at her almost sadly. “If the notebook is determined to be as rare as some of you think it is, I would suggest we then approach the National Trust and The Family. Explain that Miss Cantwell has made a Find, and consulted Dr. Strand, and that a generous donor would be prepared to buy the item, support its preservation, and donate it back to Sissinghurst. That should untangle any looming legal snarls and make Miss Cantwell look like a saint.”

Imogen’s sour expression softened. If she still had doubts, she kept them firmly between her teeth.

“Who will type up the statements?” Margaux asked, as she bit into her almond croissant. Delicious .

“Already done.” Marcus pulled a sheaf of papers from his black leather Filofax and handed them around, beaming.

It was only then that Margaux saw how completely they had been managed, from first to last. Gray Westlake had anticipated whatever she or Imogen could muster. Oddly enough — she didn’t really mind.

IT WAS ONLY AFTER THE WOMEN HAD LEFT, CLUTCHING their signed copies according them rights without any particular responsibilities, that Gray Westlake used the intelligence he’d received from his research department that morning.

Marcus Symonds-Jones was chattering in his usual fashion, a mixture of flattery and false intimacy, sprinkled with thanks for the seamless way Gray had handled the business, and offers of assistance in any way possible, present or future. Gray let him run on as he gathered up his documents and secured the Woolf notebook in a plastic bag. Then, as Marcus drew off his plastic gloves and threw one last smile Gray’s way, preparatory to making his exit, Gray said mildly, “You slept with her, didn’t you? Margaux Strand. That’s what destroyed her marriage.”

The man’s mouth fell open, then after a stunned second, snapped closed. “I’m hardly the first.”

“Obviously. Her husband, at least, was before you.”

As Marcus started to protest, Gray raised his hand. “I’m not interested in discussing the woman’s morals, okay? It’s Llewellyn’s reaction I find fascinating. He kicked her out, but he kept working for you. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

Marcus shrugged. “She was the one who betrayed him.”

“Not you? Not his boss? No hard feelings between friends?”

“As I’ve said,” Marcus mouthed deliberately, “I wasn’t the first to tickle her knickers.”

“So you’re not concerned — that he lit out with a client and a valuable auction prospect, and is still wandering the country unaccounted for? It’d make me sweat a little, Marcus. If I were you, I’d be waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“What are you saying, Westlake?” The expert frowned, trying to work it out.

Gray shrugged, already bored. “A guy who works for you, and has every reason to hate your guts, gave that notebook to his ex-wife… who brought it straight back to you. Don’t you feel, Marcus, like you’re being set up?”

PETER SLEPT LATE WEDNESDAY, AND SAT ALONE over tea and toast in the cavernous dining room of the University Arms hotel, a decidedly gloomy Victorian pile that overlooked a sward of green just off Regent Street in Cambridge. The place was half empty, the hallways echoing, but they had settled on it without debate the previous night as the most obvious place to fall into their separate beds.

Jo’d been rather quiet after the Indian curry, and Peter suspected she was worrying about her client again. Reviewing his own high-handed behavior during the past few days, he was awash in guilt; there was no other way to describe his miserable feeling. Guilt was the British national disease, after all, the baseline emotion beaten into every public schoolboy, and he’d carried it abjectly from childhood straight into his relationship with Margaux at Oxford — something she’d taken for granted and knew how to use. Whenever he was uncomplicatedly happy — as now — a shadow of doubt would loom, a gnawing conviction that the bubble must burst as a result of his stupidity and self-indulgence. He’d selfishly seized on this lark as an escape from boredom. Jo, however, had come to England with a job to do — and he’d prevented her from doing it. He might even get her fired.