Serpent in the Garden by Janet Gleeson Page B

be grateful to see the back of it.” Dunstable fairly gulped down his ale as if he’d not drunk for a week.
    “Did he have any visitors during that time?”
    “Aye, a few. But there was one that made him wait.”
    “What d’you mean?”
    “Cobb was forever asking if anyone had called; if any letters had arrived.”
    “He never said who the person he expected was?”
    “Not in so many words, but it was a lady. He said more than once, ‘If anyone comes, tell her I will not be long, and look after her well till my return.’”
    “Do you remember any of the callers who did come? Did they leave names?”
    “Hold on, not so fast,” said the landlord, thumping his empty mug on the counter. “What’s all this to do with your proposition?”
    “Another drink, Mr. Dunstable? I need to talk to Cobb,” Joshua said, lying through his teeth without any visible qualm. “It’s a delicate family matter.” Here he winked knowingly at Dunstable and tapped the side of his nose. “If I can trace one of his visitors, perhaps they will help me find him. I would be most grateful for your assistance.”
    Dunstable shrugged his shoulders and refilled his mug to the brim. “One was a solicitor, who worked for a London office.”
    “How d’you know?”
    “He left a card with a message for Mr. Cobb.”
    “His name?”
    “Bartholomew Hoare, attorney of Gray’s Inn Lane.”
    “Any others?”
    “Herbert Bentnick. He had a grand disagreement with your Mr. Cobb.”
    “Herbert Bentnick? Are you certain it was he?”
    “As certain as I am there’s paint on the end of your nose.”
    Joshua dabbed at his face hastily with a handkerchief. “And what was the argument about? Were you present when it took place? Did you overhear it?”
    Dunstable looked a little peeved at this suggestion. “The gentlemen were at the seats you see there.” He waved a broad, hairy hand in the direction of an oak settle in a dark corner of the inn. “So I could hardly fail to, could I?”
    “Quite so. I didn’t mean to suggest you were intruding.”
    “No, well, perhaps not. But I have to mind what happens here …”
    “Yes, yes, Mr. Dunstable, but did you hear anything?”
    “Have patience; I’m telling you now, aren’t I? They had scarce taken a sip of their wine when Mr. Bentnick set to shouting at Mr. Cobb. ‘I tell you she will not see you and there’s an end to it,’ he fairly bellowed, whereupon Mr. Cobb says, ‘I ask for no more than is rightfully mine.’ Then Mr. Bentnick responds, ‘There is only your say-so on it,’ and Cobb says, ‘No, there’s more. I have letters to prove it.’ At that point the two stood and faced each other and I grew afraid for their safety. Mr. Bentnick says he knows nothing of any papers, but he’s sure they must be counterfeit if they exist. Next thing Cobb’s thrown his tankard and soaked Mr. Bentnick, who’s told him if he stays a moment longer, he’ll be in danger of doing Mr. Cobb some terrible injury. Then he stormed off, drenched to the skin and fuming.”
    This was all most interesting; Dunstable had earned his ale and another besides. “Were there other encounters between the two of them?” Joshua asked as he sipped.
    “None that I witnessed, though ’tis my guess that the lady they spoke of and the lady he was always waiting for were one and the same. ’Tis possible she was the lady who came the very day Cobb disappeared.”
    “Who was she?”
    “There I cannot help you. I was occupied with the stables and the grooms; I caught a brief glimpse of her entering the inn. That is all. She wasn’t known to me.”
    “What variety of lady was she?”
    “A fair one.”
    “Her age? Manner?”
    “Wigged, powdered, twenty or thereabouts, dressed in the grandest style feathers, and flowers and ribbons and lace and anything else you care to mention. As conscious of her charms as anyone with her attractions would be.”
    “What makes you associate her with Mr. Bentnick?”
    Dunstable