“ — Defending his Lime Walk and his English spring,” Jo murmured.
“Aren’t you glad they’re still here?” Peter shrugged. “He’d sent the truth about Blunt and Burgess to Maynard Keynes; if nobody wanted to believe it — that was hardly Harold’s problem. He wasn’t the sort to expose his fellows.”
“Lest they expose him,” Margaux shot back. “But murder?”
“We’ll never know whether it was murder,” Peter reminded her gently.
“We know,” Jo said.
BEFORE THEY LEFT SISSINGHURST THAT NIGHT, PETER placed the cigarette papers, Leonard’s letter and book, and the biscuit tin in a plastic bag. Imogen sealed it with tape and they all signed it with a black marker; then she photographed the bundle and locked it in her office safe.
“I can tell The Family I was in on the find with a straight face, now,” she said with exultant relief.
MARCUS SYMONDS-JONES WAS LOOKING AT JO THIS MORNING as though she were a particularly recalcitrant child. “I don’t think, you know, that you’re in any position to make demands. Given your extraordinary behavior in recent days. The people at this table are all that stand between you and prosecution.”
Jo smiled at him. “Did you learn that trick of intimidation from Gray? I suppose you’ll offer me a document to sign, now.”
“As a matter of fact — ” Marcus lifted a sheet of paper from the agenda before him. “I have it here. You relinquish any claim to these items in exchange for a leniency I only hope we can guarantee. I have not yet consulted the Trust or the Nicolson Family — God knows what penalties they might enforce — but we will try to do our best by you, Miss Bellamy.”
“How fortunate, then,” Peter interjected, “that we consulted The Family ourselves.”
Marcus paused. He glanced at Gray, who was studying Peter with an interested expression.
“That’s why we thought it best to meet here, in the garden, where the papers belong,” Peter added quietly. “The Family were delighted to learn from Imogen that she’d unearthed a number of treasures related to Sissinghurst and its more famous occupants; and they felt we might be interested in a final document that has come to light.” Peter paused, aware that the room had gone silent. “A poem, to be precise, written by Vita Sackville-West and found after her death.”
“Where?” Margaux demanded. “In the Tower? I swear, there’s more bloody stuff up there than anybody realizes. The Trust just sits on it.”
“The Family, not the Trust, found this particular poem — and to them, it was inexplicable. But they kept it safe.”
“Inexplicable?” Gray repeated. “In what way?”
“In the way that any piece of a puzzle is meaningless without the rest. The poem is entitled ‘In Memoriam: White Garden.’ It’s dated April 1941.”
“That’s when she published her Woolf poem,” Margaux exclaimed.
“Spot on,” Peter agreed. “Vita wrote ‘In Memoriam: Virginia Woolf’ for the London Observer that April. This poem — the one found in the Tower — would appear to be a companion to it. A more intimate lament, if you will, that she suppressed. Dr. Strand, can you recall any of the published poem?”
Margaux pursed her lips and closed her eyes, lost in thought for a few seconds. Then she intoned: “So let us say, she loved the water-meadows, / The Downs; her friends; her books; her memories; / The room which was her own. / London by twilight; shops and Mrs. Brown; / Donne’s church; the Strand; the buses, and the large / Smell of humanity that passed her by…” Margaux’s eyes drifted open. “Vita goes on to compare Virginia to a moth, fluttering against a lamp. And then she closes with:
How small, how petty seemed the little men / Measured against her scornful quality.
We feminists love to quote that bit.”
“What do you think of it? As poetry, I mean?”
“Not entirely successful.” Margaux was enjoying her moment on the stage. “Vita seemed torn between a private tribute and a public one, the need to mourn her friend and the need to ensure Virginia’s place in the English canon. That tension’s evident in the verse — ”
Marcus shifted irritably in his seat. “Yes, yes, all very delightful I’m sure — but to what does this chatter tend?”
Peter drew what appeared to be a simple sheet of writing paper from a manila envelope and placed it gently in the middle of the table.
In Memoriam: White Garden
I said she was a moth, fluttered spirit, delicate;
That bumped against the lamp of life. No mention made
Of how they tortured her, prey to nameless fears,
With such exact descriptions of the night:
Its quality, deception, unnumbered shades of grey
Crept in to suffocate the plangent souls she loved.
The glow of blanchèd flowers and pale birds
Her sole security for sleep.
O Virginia, whose cobweb fingers trailed
Among our thorns, jabbering in tongues and fractured
Semaphore, your madness is a comfort to us now.
What sense you made of bowler hats and bombing runs,
The water meadows drown; it will not stand for long
against the ministry of lies, the soporific song
we mutter in our darkened rooms, mere lullabies
before the final sleep.
I told you not to meddle. Not to worry your poor head.
I should have held you up as sane
Before the men, instead.
Fatuity, indifference; a bitter, soul-deep blight —
A weariness with war and bombs
And blackout shades pulled tight.
And when I paid attention —
You had slipped off, in the night.
White clematis, white lavender, anemone and rose
The lists go on and on, my dear, remorse that barely shows.
I’ve planted you a garden here, against the pitchy black;
Pure white, my virginal, my owl; pure white,
Now just — Come back —
“It’s an apology,” Jo murmured, “and a farewell. Isn’t it, Peter?”
“The Family tell me they would like this poem included with the other documents — the notebook, Leonard Woolf’s bound volume, the cigarette papers. Their preference is that these finds remain in England, in an archival setting, and they’re hopeful of consulting, through the Trust, the curators of Monk’s House to reach an equitable solution for all parties concerned.”
“Excellent,” Marcus managed, with a visible effort at recovery. He tore at the cap of his Montblanc pen. “Just give me the best contact number, won’t you, and I’ll take it from here?”
“I’ve been empowered to act as broker between The Family, the Trust, and the University of Sussex,” Peter continued inexorably. “The bulk of the Woolf papers are housed at Sussex, you see. The Family is desirous of placing these items with the rest of the Woolf collection, so that scholars” — he inclined his head toward Margaux — “might have the greatest ease of access. They’ve offered the notebook to the University at an exceptionally decent price, and the University is considering the acquisition. Jo Bellamy has agreed to lend her grandfather’s papers for an indefinite period of time.”
“Scholars?” Margaux repeated. “That’s not what I stipulated. I was promised sole access!”
“We have documents, Peter!” Marcus spluttered. “Signed.”
“ — By no one with any real authority in the case, unfortunately. But don’t piss your drawers, Marcus — you’re not out of it altogether. I have here a letter” — Peter resorted once more to his manila envelope — “signed by representatives of both the Trust and The Family, requesting the completion of Sotheby’s in-house notebook analysis and the return of the materials to Sissinghurst. The auction house will, of course, be paid for those services — out of the proceeds of our private sale.”