by Annis Bell
If Jane had not gone to Sir Frederick’s mansion in Northumberland, the article would hardly even have caught his eye. But now Jane was spending her days in the house of an orchid collector.
Without finishing his breakfast, he stood and stalked out of the room, taking the newspaper with him. He met Levi in the hall, watering the plants. “Levi, where is Blount?”
“Good morning, sir,” the old man answered with his slight accent. “Mr. Blount will be back soon, I believe. He had some business to take care of.”
“Hmm. All right, thank you. Oh, Levi . . .”
The man flinched slightly. “Yes, sir?”
“Any news of your family?” David asked.
“No, sir,” Levi replied quietly, lowering his eyes. “It’s as if there’s no one left who knows anything about them.”
“Those were bad times, terrible times for you and Josiah. I hope you have managed to settle in here.” David observed the mix of expressions that crossed Levi’s face. He seemed suddenly to be on guard, for his posture stiffened and he tightly grasped the watering can. “We are very grateful to you, sir, for everything you have done for us.”
“That’s not what I mean. Are you happy here, or would you prefer to return to your homeland?” They were standing close together in the hall, speaking in lowered voices.
“No, I . . . no, everything is fine.” Suddenly, Levi looked directly at David, and David saw so much fear in his eyes that he was ashamed to have put the other man on the spot. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No! I am very satisfied with your work. It’s just that sometimes I think that this position doesn’t pose much of a challenge to you, and that you might conceivably prefer to do something else.”
A cynical smile crossed Levi’s face. “What dreams could a man like me still harbor, sir? I am alive and I take care of Josiah, and that is enough, though I dream of more for him.”
“He is a smart, endearing lad who will certainly make his mark, provided he doesn’t fall in with the wrong crowd. Sometimes, national pride—when misunderstood—has led to the perpetration of cruel deeds and destroyed more than one young life,” said David, as he heard the outer door to the servants’ wing swing shut.
His face paling a little, Levi shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. “I see no danger there, sir. He likes it here in England very much.”
“Good, then we understand each other. Ah!”
Blount entered the hall just then, and David quickly bade his friend to follow him into his study. “Close the door, Blount.”
Once they were alone, Blount turned to David. “Captain?”
David spread the newspaper on his desk, next to the yellow orchid. He pointed to the article, which bore the fitting headline Orchid Murder. “Did you read that?”
Blount, small and wiry and wearing his usual brown suit, nodded. “And I took it upon myself to make some inquiries.”
David nodded encouragingly. “Go on. You have my attention and my confidence.”
Clearing his throat, Blount said, “I immediately thought of Lady Jane’s destination. And because this orchid also came from Veitch and Sons, I took an early stroll down to Chelsea and asked around.”
David glanced at the nursery’s gold emblem on a band around the orchid’s pot.
“The victim was a young employee, Jeremy Korshaw. He’d been with the firm just six months. His absence had been noted late yesterday afternoon, but they only found him in the famous Nepenthes hothouse later in the evening. It seems he worked in there often. If he didn’t strangle himself with that rope, then he was most likely throttled.”
“Anything about his background?”
“None of the gawkers there could help with that, but I’m meeting another of the workers this evening, a chap by the name of Tom who cleans up all the rubbish. Says he’ll be happy to tell me more about Korshaw . . . for a small consideration.”
“Good work, Blount. And you know, I think I should purchase another one of these plants.”
A trace of a smile appeared on his loyal companion’s face. It was rare for Blount to show any emotion at all, but his deeds spoke for themselves. Before leaving the house a short while later, David checked the hall table, but there was still no letter from Jane. Grimly, he slipped on his hat, flipped up the collar of his coat, and stepped into the cold November morning, where a coach awaited him.
His route took him first to the Brompton police station, south of Hyde Park. Just over thirty years earlier, the Metropolitan Police Act had divided London into seventeen districts, each with its own police station; ever since then, crime rates in the city had been falling. There were many who had little love for the “peelers” and “bobbies,” as the uniformed officers had come to be known, but the institution had firmly established itself within the city overall. David Wescott now entered the plain building and was greeted by a young sergeant.
“Good morning, Captain Wescott! You’ll be wanting to see Mr. Rooke?”
“That I will, Berwin.” David followed the sergeant down a dark corridor. Sergeant Berwin rapped sharply on a door, then ushered David into the tiny office of Superintendent Michael Rooke.
Rooke was about the same height as David, heavily built and with an honest face. His nose had been broken at least twice, and two deep scars marked his chin. In contrast to David, he wore his dark hair short and had a neatly trimmed moustache. The two men knew each other from collaborating on some difficult cases, and they liked each other. An initiative introduced by Sir James Graham meant that a select few plainclothes officers were now able to carry out inquiries as part of a special criminal investigation office. Michael Rooke coordinated his people in secret and had achieved considerable success in solving cases of violent crime.
“David! Always glad to see you! What brings you here today?” Michael greeted him heartily, offering him a chair. The furnishings in the office were spartan, as were the officers’ salaries, but Rooke made a tidy sum on the side as a private investigator.
David appreciated Rooke’s straightforward manner. He was the kind of man who got right to the point. “Nothing political this time. I’m here about the so-called orchid murder. Have you found out much about the victim?”
With one of his large hands—hands that could break a man’s arm with a quick twist—Michael Rooke scratched his chin. “Strange that you would be asking me about that. Are you collecting orchids now, too?”
David laughed. “Lord, no! I’m here more on my wife’s behalf. She is visiting Sir Frederick Halston and asked me to poke around a little in the milieu.”
Michael raised one eyebrow. “Your lady is determined, isn’t she . . . and by the way, I still have nothing new to tell you about the whereabouts of the orphans. Australia is far away, and the arm of the law is not long enough.”
“Thank you anyway for your efforts, Michael, but my interests currently lie more with these orchid-gathering lunatics. Who in their right mind would pay a small fortune for a few exotic plants that are going to die on him sooner or later?”
“Ha! My sentiments exactly, but you’re wrong if you think the collectors are lunatics, my friend. Eccentric, perhaps. But money and prestige are at stake. Sir Frederick is one of the leading collectors; as we speak, he is practically at war with Sir Robert Parks to amass the best orchids. You would be amazed how often hothouses are broken into. The thieves know precisely what they are there to steal because they are carrying out contract burglaries. I suspect that was also the case at Veitch and Sons.”
“But what sort of burglar would throttle an employee if he was caught in the act? Wouldn’t a knife be the weapon of choice instead? Might it not be something personal? Something to do with Korshaw’s life?” David suggested.
“You don’t know the details. The killer brought the rope with him, and it was knotted in a special way; it reminded me of sailors’ knots. I’m having drawings of the knot done. You can have a look at them tomorrow if you like. In any case, the burglar
wanted to send a signal, perhaps a warning to someone.”
“Have you already talked to Mr. Veitch?”
“It’s early, and I’ve only just had breakfast. I’ll know more by tomorrow,” said Rooke.
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Back out on the street, the cold November wind and the city’s stink were like slaps in the face. Living in London had many advantages, but healthy air was not among them. Human excrement, cadavers, horse dung, slaughterhouse waste, and the dross from tanning factories—everything was disposed of by simply tossing it into the Thames. The rain, meanwhile, washed the refuse from fish markets, hospitals, bone merchants, candlemakers, and dyers into the river. On hot summer days, the pestilential reek that rose from the Thames was unbearable. In winter, the stale air was hemmed in by the blanketing clouds and coal gas and forced into the city’s many streets and alleys. David pulled on gloves and returned to the coach; he had instructed the driver to wait for him.
“King’s Road, Veitch and Sons,” David told the driver before he climbed in.
As the carriage pulled up in front of the nursery a few minutes later, a throng of curious onlookers had already gathered on the footpath and among the trees. A uniformed officer stood squarely in front of the Veitch and Sons entrance, keeping the spectators at a distance with his impressive sideburns and menacing glare.
“Are you a customer, sir, or a friend of this establishment?” the constable asked when David approached.
“A customer, but only if it doesn’t cause any inconvenience,” David replied politely.
The officer stepped aside. “In you go, sir. Bad news indeed if a death should cripple the business, sir; every customer’s welcome. Mr. Veitch is a fine man.”
David stepped inside the salesroom and was surprised by the tasteful interior. Hundreds of houseplants were arranged on wooden and marble pedestals; beautiful plants seemingly deserved a correspondingly beautiful setting. It was some minutes before a thin, elderly nurseryman appeared from among the forest of leaves. The green apron he wore over his dark suit bore the company’s emblem.
The man’s watery gray eyes looked at David, then immediately refocused on the various potted plants, which apparently seemed more in need of his attention. “Good day. One moment . . .”
Like a grasshopper, the man sprang from plant to plant, tugging off an occasional dead leaf, before finally nodding with satisfaction. “Now they are better. They are suffering, you see. Plants have a soul, and they sense if something isn’t right. Someone has taken away their friend, and that is painful for them.”
“Hmm. You mean Mr. Korshaw?” asked David carefully.
“Did you know him?” the nurseryman said, downcast.
“Not really, but I often bought from him,” David lied. “He was very knowledgeable, in contrast to me.” He smiled and pointed at a violet orchid. “For me, the color is what matters.”
“The color, yes, well . . .” He produced a well-worn notebook from his apron pocket. “What was the name?”
“Wescott. Captain Wescott,” said David.
The gardener rapidly leafed through the small book. “I can’t find you. He made a note of every customer; we all do, so that we know immediately what someone might prefer when he places an order. What color, captain? Violet, or a vibrant pink? Or perhaps a rich yellow? I have a stunning Eulophia here . . .”
“Not yellow. A dark violet. My wife really loves that color.” David followed the man deeper into the store. “So the tragic accident happened in Nepenthes, the holy of holies. Very unfortunate, very unfortunate,” Wescott chattered away. “How did Mr. Veitch take it?”
The front door opened, and a woman in a midnight-blue dress entered. She wore a veil, and her jacket was trimmed with expensive fur; everything about her reeked of arrogant impatience.
The nurseryman flinched at the sight of her. “Excuse me, Captain. I’ll be back in a moment.”
David saw a round face with bright red lips beneath the veil. Too garish altogether, like the rest of her appearance.
The nurseryman greeted her. “Lady Dykson, how nice of you to come by today. I’m very sorry, but our—”
“Where is Korshaw? What are these stories I’m hearing? He can’t be dead! Unheard of! I demand to be served by Mr. Korshaw alone.” With every turn the determined woman made, her skirts swished audibly.
“That is not possible. Please, take a seat. I’ll fetch Mr. Veitch for you.” The nurseryman looked at David apologetically, then disappeared down a corridor.
“May I introduce myself? Captain Wescott,” said David, taking a small bow.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there.” Lady Dykson fluttered her eyelashes. “Captain.”
Wescott knew this kind of woman well, the kind whom neither title nor fortune could save from a lack of grace. “Tell me, my lady, Korshaw was quite healthy, wasn’t he? That’s how I remember him, at least.”
“Of course he was healthy! In the bloom of life, and such a charming young man. He knew more about orchids than anyone else. He had not been here very long at all, and he was one of the most beloved of the nurserymen,” Lady Dykson explained.
“Where was he before coming here?”
“He’d just come back from a sea journey, from India, I think. Or was it Granada? Well, wherever it was, he’d been abroad collecting orchids. Imagine that! Someone jaunts off to a tropical wilderness and picks flowers to bring back to England. Isn’t that adorable?”
And lucrative, thought David, as he joined in the lady’s artificial laughter. “Quite remarkable, as you say. Such strenuous journeys must take a lot out of a man. Perhaps he brought back an illness with him?”
Lady Dykson pursed her scarlet mouth anxiously. “Oh, that would be horrible! But no, he would have been pale or . . . Well, now that you mention it, he didn’t seem as stable as usual lately. An illness like that wouldn’t be communicable, would it? I mean, one never can say for sure how those terrible tropical diseases spread.”
“Don’t worry. What killed him is unlikely to be of any danger to you.”
“How do you know? Are you a doctor?” Lady Dykson snapped indignantly.
David smiled. “I imagine a rope around one’s neck is unlikely to be catching.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in, but then Lady Dykson gaped at him in shock and fear.
Fortunately, just then the nurseryman returned, accompanied by his employer, freeing David from the humorless woman’s company.
8.
Winton Park, Northumberland, November 1860
After the strains of the long journey the previous day, Jane needed fresh air and exercise, and a walk would perhaps allow her to meet the gamekeeper. If she wanted to understand what was going on at Winton Park, she had to know everyone who lived on the estate. It was perfectly clear that something was troubling Charlotte, but she was keeping her secrets to herself, and not even Alison had been able to get her to loosen her tongue.
“Hettie, where have you been?” Jane was waiting for her maid at the steps leading down to the garden.
“Beg pardon, ma’am, but the cook gave me this when she heard that we wanted to check on Pebbles.” Hettie held up a cloth bag that smelled like ham.
“Ham for the little dog?” Jane shook her head as she trotted lightly down the steps.
In front of them lay a broad semicircular lawn bounded by a low boxwood labyrinth and some flower beds. There was a rose garden with a small gazebo that would be perfect for taking tea in summer, and an area to one side that might have been a stage, surrounded by a stone balustrade. Winton Park was huge and offered sufficient lodgings for illustrious visitors, for whom artistic performances would very likely have been on the agenda.
“No, the ham is for Mr. O’Connor. The giblets and the bread are for the dog,” Hettie explained.
“And did you ask exactly where Mr. O’Connor’s cottage lies?” Jane gazed dispiritedly at the woods in front of her; she did not like the idea of idly wa
ndering around in search of the gamekeeper’s cottage.
“We’re supposed to follow the middle path until we come to the river. From there we cross a bridge, then take the path that leads straight into the woods. That will take us directly to Mr. O’Connor. Mrs. Elwood says that it sounds further than it is.” Hettie hopped along happily beside Jane. “Oh, and we absolutely have to be back before dark. If we get lost, she said, we could end up on the moor.”
“Before dark? My goodness, how long does Mrs. Elwood think we’ll be strolling around out here?” Jane began to walk faster, casting doubtful looks up at the sky.
“Mrs. Elwood said that it would stay dry, but that the fog could thicken.” Hettie hesitated. “Shouldn’t we ask someone to go with us?”
Stopping short, Jane put her hands on her hips. The woods were more extensive than she had thought, and one maid had already disappeared. There could, of course, be many reasons for that, but taking an unnecessary risk would be frivolous. “Has the captain bribed you?”
Hettie looked at her wide-eyed. “Bribed me? Why would he do that?”
Jane laughed. “To keep an eye on me, that’s why! To stop me doing anything foolhardy!”
“But you never do anything foolhardy, ma’am. I’m the one who does that!” said Hettie with certainty.
Jane was wondering whom she might ask to accompany them, besides Sir Frederick or his wife, when she heard a melodic whistling from the edge of the forest. The woods there were a mix of pines and various deciduous trees, looking lost and melancholy now without their leafy coats. A gust of wind swept through the trees, its whistling blending with the rustling of the pines and the groaning of the knotty trunks. Gray clouds scudded across the sky, and the moor seemed to lurk just beyond the woods. Moor landscapes can be so beautiful, thought Jane. But she knew, too, that a single misstep could spell disaster on this treacherous ground.
