by Annis Bell
Particularly torturous is the fact that the black orchid is practically within reach. I am certain that I was not imagining what I saw that evening at the mission station. The necklace the old Indian wore included a black orchid! Once I have successfully secured the Sobralia mystica and brought it safely to Maracaibo, I will assemble a stronger crew and venture back into the territory of those antagonistic Indians! To allow me to do that, I ask you to transfer an amount of two hundred pounds to the El Mirador in Maracaibo. I cannot contrive such an undertaking without suitable equipment and arms. If I find no money waiting, then I will board the next ship back to England. I expect our expedition over the cordillera to the Motilones to take two weeks.
The ascent took us three days. José remains with us and is a great help. Dennis is a fine companion, and it would have pained me to lose that intelligent young man. He positively flourishes here in the mountains. The climate is considerably more pleasant than in the jungle, although we are well aware that we will soon be confronted again with the damp heat of the lowlands. Two mules and four bearers are now traveling with us, putting a strain on my financial reserves. The men are stoic cordillera Indians with broad faces. They keep to themselves, saying little, and our agreement is that they are only to accompany us as far as the Motilone territory. We will need to find new bearers there.
These tight-lipped mountain goats, as I call the Indians—for they climb these dizzyingly steep crags with an inborn surefootedness—are our guides along the centuries-old paths. Generations of wanderers have formed these routes, although they remain barely visible. We have walked alongside deep ravines and sheer cliffs, and at times the trail has been so precipitous as to make me feel faint. At one point, our path took us alongside a wild mountain stream between ever-steeper walls of red sandstone and white limestone.
Many times, we found ourselves on paths no more than a yard across, gazing into gorges thousands of feet deep! The mules, however, are as unlikely to stumble as the cordillera Indians. I have learned that one must simply give the beasts a free rein, for they know best of all where to put their feet.
On the fourth morning, we broke camp early, and the sun flooded the plains of the llanos, as they call the rich alluvial lowlands here in Venezuela. It wasn’t long before we finally reached the pass through the High Sierra. A cold wind constantly blows there, and we wrapped ourselves in our ponchos. The rocky range divides the lowlands of the Río Magdalena from the lowlands around Maracaibo Lake like a gigantic wall. And let me tell you, my dear Sir Frederick, the view from the top was sublime!
Using the telescope, I surveyed the glorious natural spectacle unfolding before me. It was a hazy morning, and the horizon blurred in the distance. Somewhere in that direction lay the southern shore of Lake Maracaibo.
“From here, it is at least sixty miles to the shore,” I said to Dennis. He was standing beside me, and I handed him the telescope.
The Indians had made themselves comfortable in the shade of a rocky wall and were chewing on jerky. They had no interest in pretty views. They knew all those wilds, they lived inside them, and the kind of idleness we know—when, for example, we pick up a sketch pad and attempt to capture what we see—was alien to them. If I myself had a single iota of artistic talent, I would have set up my easel there and then and dipped my brush in all of the magnificent colors before my eyes.
“Look! Could it be? There, on that outcrop. Yes, there’s a white man!” Dennis became immediately excited and handed me the telescope, pointing down the mountainside.
I aimed the glass at a rocky ridge below. “Damn him!” I could not help but mutter.
None other than Mungo Rudbeck was standing there, and just then, he turned around. Our eyes met, although he could certainly not have seen me, but perhaps my spectacle lenses had caught the sunlight.
“Is it him?” Dennis leaned forward, and his boots slipped from the rock. I grabbed his arm.
“He is not worth breaking your neck over.” I knew that Mungo had at least two dead rivals on his conscience—if he could be said to have a conscience—but I kept that thought to myself so as not to trouble Dennis. We have to move with the utmost caution in our dealings with such a ruthless hunter. I can only hope that, in his cruelty, he does not maltreat the Motilones. On the other hand, doing so might not be such a bad idea, for then they would surely not show him their holy orchid.
Until I have more news to relate, I remain,
Your faithful servant,
Derek Tomkins
17.
Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
Jane entered the dining room with Charlotte, who had clearly gone to great trouble with her clothes. But even her fabulous midnight-blue dress and sparkling jewels could not brighten her tired eyes and pallid skin.
“Charlotte, my dear, don’t you think you ought to lie down? You look so . . . ,” Jane whispered, squeezing the pitiable woman’s hand.
“I’m fine,” said Charlotte, taking back her hand. She went to the seat at her husband’s right. Sir Frederick was standing and waiting for the women to be seated.
Holding a letter in his hands, Sir Frederick seemed to be pondering something and greeted the women with an absent, “Good evening.”
The table was set for four people. “Are we expecting another guest?” Jane asked, sipping a little wine.
“Pardon?” Sir Frederick glanced up. “Oh, excuse me, only our good Dr. Cribb. He should arrive any minute . . . he’ll be staying overnight. But please, let’s begin.”
The butler supervised the serving of the oxtail soup. Their tardy dinner guest arrived just as the fried oysters were being brought to the table.
“Please excuse my lateness. I was delayed in Allenton with two cases. A red-hot iron fell on the blacksmith’s foot, and the Gladstaines lost their youngest. A sudden death.” Dr. Cribb sat down beside Jane, seeming happy to finally drink a glass of wine.
“A girl or a boy?” Jane asked.
“A girl. Delicate little thing. I don’t know why, but it happens from time to time. The children suffocate in their sleep and no one can do anything about it.” The doctor held his drained glass up to the butler, who refilled it with red wine.
Holding a napkin to her mouth, Charlotte suppressed a sob. “How terrible! Those poor parents. Do we know the Gladstaines?”
Sir Frederick raised his head and frowned in annoyance. “They are villagers, Charlotte. Why would we know them? Pull yourself together.”
“But a tender, lonely little soul has passed on. Oh, God, when I think of our own little angels . . . Dr. Cribb, who are the Gladstaines, and do they have enough money for a white coffin and ostrich feathers? That would be the least we could do.” Charlotte was more upset than Jane had ever seen her before. Jane doubted very much whether the parents’ pain would be lessened by wealthy people adding white ostrich feathers to their children’s graves.
“My lady, they are not well off. They are simple workers.” Cribb pried an oyster out of its shell.
“Then I will have white ostrich feathers and a white dress sent to them for their daughter’s funeral,” Charlotte said with resolve.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash behind Charlotte, and glass shattered. She let out a sharp cry and her hands flew to her throat.
“It was just a picture, Charlotte. Please, calm down!” Sir Frederick looked over at the sideboard, on which a still life of flowers had fallen, knocking over plates and glasses as it did so. The nail that had held it up hung halfway out of the wall. “Draycroft, take care of that quickly and quietly.”
The butler nodded and brought in two maids, who set to work clearing away the debris. Sensing what was coming next, Jane watched Charlotte, and Charlotte did indeed set aside her napkin with shaking fingers.
Her lips quivering, and speaking in a hoarse whisper, she said, “A picture fell from the wall just as we were talking about the child’s death. Don’t you see what this means?”
Sir Frederick’s expression cl
ouded. He smacked the flat of his hand vigorously against the table. “Enough, Charlotte. I don’t want to hear a word of your superstitious gibberish!”
But Charlotte looked right through him, her eyes gazing at another world that only she could see. “No, no, someone will die. One of us is next. I have to go to the children!”
She suddenly stood up, knocking over her chair, and ran from the room. Sir Frederick, who gave no sign of following his wife, calmly turned to the doctor. “Would you check on her, please?”
The doctor was already on his feet. “Of course, sir.”
Jane had no doubt that Charlotte would not accept her help. What was she supposed to say, anyway? She was not superstitious and put little store in the kind of dubious wisdom that said, for example, that an owl seen in daylight foretold an imminent death, as did a single snowflake in the garden or a bird pecking at your window.
“My lady, what must you think of us? But that is why you’re here, isn’t it? To study us?” Sir Frederick held the carafe of wine in one hand. “Wine?”
“Please.” She watched as the crimson liquid filled her glass.
Sir Frederick set the carafe on the white tablecloth. A drop of the wine ran down over the carafe’s bulbous body and stained the cloth red.
“What do think that signifies? Another death?” He ran one finger around the rim of his glass.
“Red on white? Like red and white flowers, which should never appear together in the same vase? No, Sir Frederick, I believe only in what I can see and understand. I grew up in the countryside, and as a result I have rather a practical outlook on life. And you?”
The tinkling of glass accompanied the cleaning up going on behind Sir Frederick.
Her host picked up the letter he’d been reading before dinner. “I cannot claim to talk much with women. They tend to be irrational and are generally incapable of logical thinking, but you appear remarkably disciplined, my lady.”
Jane raised her eyebrows in amusement. “Coming from you, I guess I should take that as a compliment, but I do not want to seem presumptuous.”
“So, my lady, what is it you hope to find here? Since you have been here, you’ve been sniffing around my servants, asking questions about the disappearance and now the tragic death of the maid from Crookham.”
“Is it so hard to understand that one might wonder what happened to the poor girl? I came here because Alison asked me to. She herself was already concerned about Rachel. I simply did a good friend a favor,” Jane said, and smiled sweetly.
“Lady Alison. Yes, that was an unfortunate turn of events. I feel very sorry for her, please believe me. What woman would want to be confined to bed so far from home and family in that, uh, condition?” He was clearly uncomfortable talking about women’s matters. “You asked me where I obtain my orchids. Well, here is a letter from the orchid hunter I commissioned. For the last several months, Derek Tomkins has been in South America, or more precisely, in Colombia.”
“That must be extremely expensive, sending someone off on such a journey, searching for rare flowers in foreign lands. And not the safest journey, either.”
“Men like Tomkins thrive on danger and adventure. When I read his letters, I feel myself cast back to a time in which I myself traveled widely.” Sir Frederick handed her the letter. “Please. Read it if you like.”
Jane did not have to be asked twice. Taking the letter, she read what the orchid hunter had written about the cordilleras and hostile Indians in the jungle. “A black orchid? Are there really black flowers? I thought that was impossible?”
“But why? We have berries that are black. Why shouldn’t flowers also produce such a color?” He reached for the pages, and she handed them back.
“And what if Tomkins made a mistake, and the Indian was not wearing a black orchid after all?”
“A man like Tomkins doesn’t make mistakes. He has a reputation to protect, and besides, I will pay him handsomely if he brings me the black orchid. With an orchid like that, I would win every prize there is. It would be a gift fit for a queen.”
“If I were superstitious, I would say that a black flower would be a harbinger of misfortune,” Jane said with a small smile.
Sir Frederick looked at her with an unfathomable expression. “Are we not all responsible for our own fortunes or misfortunes?”
“And what about curses? Do you believe in those? There are items of jewelry—blue diamonds, for example—that are said to bring down catastrophe on their owners.”
“Well, I’m just going to have to risk an old Indian putting a curse on me because I’ve had my man steal his orchid.” For the first time, his lips curled slightly in amusement. “For a woman, your thinking actually seems quite rational.”
Jane swallowed a sarcastic reply; the pompous man was so enamored of himself that he actually believed women devoid of intellect. He was probably one of those men who asserted that studying at university would make a woman sick. But one day, thought Jane, one day the tide will turn.
Sir Frederick turned and addressed the butler. “When will the next course be served? Draycroft, fetch the doctor.”
The main course was a game dish, and then came cheese and brandy pudding for dessert. The doctor ate heartily and drank his fill of the wine. By the time the port was served, his cheeks were red and his speech was starting to slur. “My compliments to your chef, Sir Frederick! I haven’t had such good brandy pudding for many a year.”
“Such a pity that Charlotte had to abandon us. How is she, Doctor?” Jane laid her napkin aside. “Could I go cheer her up?”
“Peace and quiet and sleep are what she needs for now. She was very upset indeed about her son. When is Cedric supposed to leave for boarding school?” Dr. Cribb licked the port from his lips.
“In the new year. And my wife’s hysterical behavior will not alter that one bit. The boy needs a firm hand, but Charlotte will still have Eleanor, whom she can spoil all she likes. Doctor, I would like to discuss something with you.” Sir Frederick stood and the two guests followed his lead. “Lady Jane, it was my pleasure. I wish you a comfortable night’s sleep.”
“Pardon me,” she said, her skirts rustling. “The funeral is tomorrow. When will the ceremony begin?”
“At ten. But we shall not be attending,” said Sir Frederick, his tone level.
Jane smiled gently. “I will be. Good night.”
18.
London, December 1860
David could not have said if it was the crowd baying at the bloody carnage of the dogfight or the suffering of the dogs sacrificed for the greed of their owners that troubled him more. He returned to the barroom, threw down a whisky, then went back to the yard where Blount was waiting for him.
Blount, his loyal companion, rarely lost his composure and never his control. “Captain, Clifford and his friends have just left. He was very upset; he’s deeper in debt to Bill now than ever before. He may try to tap his father for money, I don’t know.”
David pushed his hands into his coat pockets. Now that most of the crowd had left the yard, the chill in the air was more evident. The arena had been dismantled as quickly as it had been set up, and all that was left as witness to the slaughter was a pile of blood-soaked wood shavings.
“Most likely Cunningham will pay off Clifford’s debts. He’s a gambler and womanizer himself, so it would be odd if he didn’t help his son out. Having said that, I know nothing about the state of Cunningham’s finances—which would be good to know. So this is where Bill’s office is supposed to be? It smells like a cesspool.”
“It’s the rats, Captain.” Blount pointed to a dark corner where stacked wooden cages held hundreds of squirming, squeaking rats. Behind the cages lay piles of rodent corpses killed by the dogs.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the plague broke out around here.” David pressed his scarf to his mouth and pushed open a door leading to a short corridor and some stairs. Light was shining from inside a door to their right.
“Captain?
I’m in here,” Bill Pedley called. “Come in, and close the door.”
Blount pushed the door to the courtyard closed with his foot and looked around, but apart from them there was no one in sight. From the floor above came the unmistakable sounds of prostitutes and their clients.
“Charming place,” Blount muttered.
David let out a small cough and entered the room that Pedley had grandly called his office, but which was really little more than a large storeroom. There was room for a table and two chairs and a tall cupboard, and in a corner stood a chest wrapped with iron bands, probably where Pedley kept his take.
The military veteran was sitting behind the desk, where papers and account books were piled. “Even in my field, accounts must be kept. So, Captain, what can I do for you? Keep it short. And if Big John puts his head in, my lips are sealed.”
Fair enough, thought David. “I’ve heard you knew Korshaw. I want to know all about the man.”
Leaning back in his chair, Pedley crossed his hands over his chest. In the oil lamp’s flickering light, the notch across his nose appeared even more furrowed. “So you work for the police, Captain? A backward step, isn’t it? From war hero to police spy?”
David ignored the insult. “There’s more going on here than the death of the gardener, or do I have that wrong?”
Pedley leaned forward and motioned David closer. “Far, far more. Korshaw was a miserable little rat who double-crossed everyone. Every time he opened his mouth, a lie came out. Nothing new . . . he was already that way in Madras.”
David stood, planting his hands on the table, leaning forward to catch Pedley’s hoarse whisper. Blount was watching the front door and corridor. “Madras? What was he doing there? Was he a plant hunter?”
