“What I did was wrong,” Jo interrupted. “I took advantage of your kindness and went off on a wild-goose chase. If I can help set things right — talk to people at the Trust, or to The Family — ”
“Good God, no,” Imogen retorted, shocked. “You’ve done enough damage.”
“I can vouch for the fact that you weren’t involved,” Jo persisted. “I can shoulder the blame.”
Imogen’s eyes narrowed; she glanced at Margaux Strand and said, “You put her up to this, didn’t you? And who the hell are you?”
Peter gave her a wry smile. “One of your hated experts.”
“Has he got it all sussed out, our Marcus? Does he know whether Woolf really wrote that daft diary?”
“Not yet,” Peter replied.
“Ah.” She tugged off her garden gloves. “Then until he informs me of where we stand, I’m barring the lot of you from the premises. Can’t be too careful. Something else might go missing.” There was belligerence in her voice; and something else. Pain.
“Imogen…” Jo reached a hand toward her. “We’re here to ask for your help.”
“And from past knowledge of my stupidity, you assume you’ll get it. I’ve reformed, however. Cheerio!”
“I rather think,” Margaux intervened pointedly, “that you ought to listen to her, love. Remember what Graydon Westlake said? That we should all work together? Lest any of us suffer individually? You’ll find words to that effect in those papers you signed.”
Jo murmured, “So Gray got to you, too — ”
But Peter interrupted her. “What papers?”
Margaux turned on him. “Ones your precious auction house dredged up. Outlining exactly who owes what to whom. I get sole academic access to the Woolf manuscripts, in exchange for my expert opinion. Imogen gets to look like the saint who made the discovery, instead of the git she is.”
“And Jo?” Peter said hotly. “What does Jo get?”
“Immunity from prosecution. — Which is quite enough, I think, for somebody who’s bollixed things up as much as she has.”
Peter stepped toward her. “Marcus agreed to this?”
“Marcus drew up the papers.” Margaux studied him coolly. “I would never have signed, of course, if I hadn’t assumed you knew all about it, Peter. Before you ever left London with Jo. I thought I was simply doing what you wanted — what you’d arranged — ”
“Oh, for the love of — ” Imogen snorted contemptuously. “You’ve been hand in glove with those rogues in London, dearie, for the better part of the week. Sugarcoating their nastiness. Simpering in their laps. Don’t try to lie about it now. You’d roll your Manolos in pig shit and wear them to Prince William’s wedding if it got you what you want. So what do you need, Jo? I’m in a mood to disappoint our Dr. Strand.”
“We’d like to examine the statue of the Little Virgin,” Jo told her. “We’ll probably have to move it.”
“Move it!” Imogen was appalled.
“Lift it, anyway. Would you or Terence be able to help?”
THEY WAITED UNTIL THE VERY LAST PAYING CUSTOMERS had been waved through the turnstile at the garden entrance. One of these recognized Imogen as the Head, and was inclined to linger in order to interrogate her on rose replant disease; but happily the old gentleman’s daughter, who’d driven him down from London, was impatient to be gone and broke off his chat with a peremptory “Come along, then, Dad. You’ll be wanting your tea.”
Jo felt a scattering of rain against her cheek. She glanced around, at the Top Courtyard and the arch to the Lower one; at Vita’s Tower soaring against the farmland and the Weald. The day had turned lowering and gray. No matter how many days in the future she might visit Sissinghurst, in spring and sun, she would remember it best as a creature of autumn, rising from a skirt of mist, as mythic as Avalon and as lost to time.
“Ter!” Imogen bellowed into her hand radio. “You’re wanted in the White Garden.” She flicked Margaux a glance. The don’s lips were turning blue from the chill. “Cozy enough for you, Dr. Strand?”
They followed her, broad-hipped and sturdy as a field marshal, across the Lower Courtyard. Peter’s fingers grazed Jo’s as they walked. “Can you feel her? Virginia?” he murmured. “She’s watching us.”
The Yew Walk was shining faintly with the rain. As they turned into it, again Jo had the sensation of descending through a tunnel, no relief from the dark hedge pressing in on either side until the sudden deliverance of the doorway cut into the green wall. The entrance to the White Garden.
The rose arbor was directly ahead of them. Terence stood by it, his arms slack, a hessian square filled with perennial cuttings at his feet.
“Eh, Miss Bellamy,” he said, with obvious pleasure. “I thought you’d done with us.”
“Never so lucky.” Imogen sighed. “Ter, these people want to examine the Little Virgin. I’m here to make sure she’s not tampered with. You’re to do a bit of heavy lifting.”
Terence shrugged, and pulled on the gloves he’d tossed near his tip bag. Jo glanced at Imogen, who inclined her head dismissively and took no step farther; after a second, Jo turned left along the slate path and then right, onto the pavers that led to the Little Virgin. The others followed.
She was standing as she had for sixty years, face almost obscured by the weeping pear.
Jo stopped short, gazing at the dull gray figure. Peter studied the Virgin for a second, then reached out and touched the gunmetal skin. “This wasn’t always here, is that correct?”
“Has been since the making of the White Garden,” Imogen returned, “the bones of which were laid in ’49 and ’50, on the site of the old Priest’s House garden. The roses that used to be here were moved up to what was the first kitchen garden, near the Yew Rondel — it’s called the Rose Garden now. If you’re asking where the statue was before all that — ”
“We know,” Peter said. “Virginia told us. It was just to the north, outside this bit’s hedge. But you couldn’t see her legs from the path because of a drop in elevation. I understand why Vita moved it; the Virgin ought to be surrounded by white.”
Imogen scowled at him. “This whole scheme was worked years after that Woolf woman died. It’s got nothing to do with her, nor the statue neither.”
“How wrong you are,” Margaux said sweetly.
“What do you lot think to find?”
“Something that was hidden before the statue was moved,” Jo said, “in a place only a gardener would know. It’s a hollow lead casting, right?”
“If it were solid, nobody’d ever budge the thing. Terence,” Imogen said, “I gather these fools want you to tip the lady over. Can you do it without breaking her neck?”
Peter helped the undergardener shift the Little Virgin gently toward the slate path. The lead was slippery with rain and the slim figure heavy. Imogen swore audibly as the statue descended earthward, but in a matter of minutes it rested facedown on top of the hessian bundle, cushioned by the season’s last cuttings.
“Here.” Peter tossed Jo his penlight. She knelt near the statue’s base and flicked on the beam.
The interior of the statue was narrower than she expected, and fluidly formed; a cleft in a manmade rock. At first she saw only lead, convoluted as it hardened in the mold so long ago; and then she noticed, far up in the torso of the figure, what looked like pillow stuffing. She reached her hand inside the aperture and pulled a bit of it out.
“What’s this?” she asked, handing it off behind her.
“Wool,” Margaux said. “Vita kept sheep, you know; she used to send knitting yarn to Virginia.”
“Stinks to high heaven,” Imogen observed. “Wonder how long it’s been in there?”
Peter was watching Jo. He had noticed that she was pulling more of the stuff out of the Little Virgin, the penlight abandoned by her knees. “What’s behind it?” he asked.