don’t see him casting himself as a character in a book about Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West, much less writing it. At seventeen, he wouldn’t have known enough about their relationship or history.”
“Very well. Did anybody at Sissinghurst—someone familiar with the place, mind—shove you in the right direction? To stumble over this book, I mean?”
“Imogen,” Jo said suddenly. “The Head Gardener. But she knew nothing about my grandfather—”
“You never mentioned him?”
Of course she had. They’d talked specifically about Jock and the war. Even in her initial letter, Jo had referred to her grandfather as a Kentishman. Was it beyond the realm of possibility that Imogen had researched the name before Jo even arrived? Had she found a Bellamy who’d been at Sissinghurst, and constructed the whole packet of lies for her to find?
“But why?” Jo demanded. “Why would she bother? She doesn’t know me. It doesn’t make sense.”
Llewellyn smiled faintly. “Are you aware that the National Trust is in financial straits? Too many great houses, too many gardens, not enough funds to keep them staggering along? Perhaps your Imogen has a mania about Sissinghurst—or keeping her job.”
“She did say she was worried about the Trust’s priorities,” Jo said. “Funding issues. She seemed to think that the garden at Sissinghurst was suddenly eclipsed by some project with the farms.”
“Perhaps this woman thought a remarkable find—the sale of your notebook for millions—would put the White Garden in the headlines,” Peter suggested. “For plausibility, she used a complete stranger as errand girl.”
Jo considered Imogen Cantwell’s potential for dark conspiracy, and failed utterly to believe it. “But what about the letter my grandfather left behind? Or his references to the Lady?”
“Coincidence?”
She bristled. “Coincidence! Across six decades and two continents? Surely there must be a better explanation, Mr. Llewellyn.”
“And you can’t help believing that it’s the one you started with.”
“Despite the excellent advice of my Book Expert.”
“You honestly think that Virginia Woolf left her home and her husband of thirty-odd years, hared off to Sissinghurst, and mooned about her marriage in the midst of the Blackout?—Where she simultaneously met your grandfather as a lad and came up with the idea for the White Garden?—Before jumping into the Ouse, regardless?”
“Maybe she was pushed.”
Peter Llewellyn laughed. It was an unexpected sound; and it betrayed to Jo that he was less certain than he seemed. “You have the oddest way of stumbling over bombshells, Miss Bellamy. You did the same thing in the tea shop, you know. And I confess you set me to thinking.”
Jo felt a flutter of hope, and repressed it. “About what?”
“Your notion that Virginia might have walked to the train station instead of ending it all on the twenty-eighth of March.”
“You said she’d been trying to drown herself for days, thank you very much.”
“But that’s irrelevant, in the end.” Llewellyn stabbed distractedly at his glasses. “What counts are the days after the twenty-eighth, not the days before. And nobody can say absolutely where she was afterwards.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It took weeks for Virginia’s body to surface in the Ouse, you see,” Llewellyn continued. “It’s believed she fetched up against a bridge rampart and was pinned below the water. For nearly a month, as I recollect. Well into April, in any case.”
Jo’s heart accelerated. “So if they didn’t find her body the day she left home, she might have gone into the Ouse at any time.”
“Exactly. She might have taken your cherished train after all. And landed in Kent, where she met your grandfather.” There was an unwilling note of excitement in the Book Expert’s voice.
“Did anyone at Sotheby’s study this handwriting?” Jo demanded. “—Somebody who could say definitely
“Very well. Did anybody at Sissinghurst—someone familiar with the place, mind—shove you in the right direction? To stumble over this book, I mean?”
“Imogen,” Jo said suddenly. “The Head Gardener. But she knew nothing about my grandfather—”
“You never mentioned him?”
Of course she had. They’d talked specifically about Jock and the war. Even in her initial letter, Jo had referred to her grandfather as a Kentishman. Was it beyond the realm of possibility that Imogen had researched the name before Jo even arrived? Had she found a Bellamy who’d been at Sissinghurst, and constructed the whole packet of lies for her to find?
“But why?” Jo demanded. “Why would she bother? She doesn’t know me. It doesn’t make sense.”
Llewellyn smiled faintly. “Are you aware that the National Trust is in financial straits? Too many great houses, too many gardens, not enough funds to keep them staggering along? Perhaps your Imogen has a mania about Sissinghurst—or keeping her job.”
“She did say she was worried about the Trust’s priorities,” Jo said. “Funding issues. She seemed to think that the garden at Sissinghurst was suddenly eclipsed by some project with the farms.”
“Perhaps this woman thought a remarkable find—the sale of your notebook for millions—would put the White Garden in the headlines,” Peter suggested. “For plausibility, she used a complete stranger as errand girl.”
Jo considered Imogen Cantwell’s potential for dark conspiracy, and failed utterly to believe it. “But what about the letter my grandfather left behind? Or his references to the Lady?”
“Coincidence?”
She bristled. “Coincidence! Across six decades and two continents? Surely there must be a better explanation, Mr. Llewellyn.”
“And you can’t help believing that it’s the one you started with.”
“Despite the excellent advice of my Book Expert.”
“You honestly think that Virginia Woolf left her home and her husband of thirty-odd years, hared off to Sissinghurst, and mooned about her marriage in the midst of the Blackout?—Where she simultaneously met your grandfather as a lad and came up with the idea for the White Garden?—Before jumping into the Ouse, regardless?”
“Maybe she was pushed.”
Peter Llewellyn laughed. It was an unexpected sound; and it betrayed to Jo that he was less certain than he seemed. “You have the oddest way of stumbling over bombshells, Miss Bellamy. You did the same thing in the tea shop, you know. And I confess you set me to thinking.”
Jo felt a flutter of hope, and repressed it. “About what?”
“Your notion that Virginia might have walked to the train station instead of ending it all on the twenty-eighth of March.”
“You said she’d been trying to drown herself for days, thank you very much.”
“But that’s irrelevant, in the end.” Llewellyn stabbed distractedly at his glasses. “What counts are the days after the twenty-eighth, not the days before. And nobody can say absolutely where she was afterwards.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It took weeks for Virginia’s body to surface in the Ouse, you see,” Llewellyn continued. “It’s believed she fetched up against a bridge rampart and was pinned below the water. For nearly a month, as I recollect. Well into April, in any case.”
Jo’s heart accelerated. “So if they didn’t find her body the day she left home, she might have gone into the Ouse at any time.”
“Exactly. She might have taken your cherished train after all. And landed in Kent, where she met your grandfather.” There was an unwilling note of excitement in the Book Expert’s voice.
“Did anyone at Sotheby’s study this handwriting?” Jo demanded. “—Somebody who could say definitely
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