The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf

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 original 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?”

“Hey,” Gray said. He was holding up his hands as though about to receive a basketball, a supplication for peace. “Let’s not squabble about this. The book is what it is. We need a team of impartial people to study it, and determine what they can. How long would Sotheby’s want to look at the manuscript, Marcus?”

“It’s already Wednesday.”

“But you could pay people overtime. Bring them in all weekend.”

“That might be possible,” Marcus agreed, glancing at Gray sidelong.

“Say until Monday, then.”

Margaux straightened. “Marcus, I can’t agree — ”

“I’m taking the thing home!” Imogen Cantwell cried at exactly the same moment.

“By what right?” Margaux sneered.

“Oh, shut up, you great cow,” Imogen retorted. “You’re no better than the rest of them — thinking your authority, that handful of letters pegged after your name, gives you a dog in this fight. You’d none of you be in this room if I hadn’t been such a fool as to give the notebook to Jo Bellamy. That Woolf belongs to The Family, and I want it back. If one of you tries to make off with it, I’ll go to the police and make a clean breast of the whole affair. I’ll have the Law on you.”

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?”