The Black Orchid (A Lady Jane Mystery Book 2)

by Annis Bell

  “Ah, our houseguest. Please, my dear, what can I offer you to drink?” Sir Frederick greeted her, his expression serious.

  “A sherry, if I may.” Jane waited until the maid handed her the glass before asking, “How is Charlotte?”

  Dr. Cribb’s eyebrows twisted in a frown. “You should not have had to witness this tragic development, my lady. Please don’t draw any quick conclusions. I had to sedate Lady Charlotte for her own protection. She was hysterical, completely beside herself.”

  Hysterical, thought Jane. That was the word, so popular, so frequently used to describe any woman who defied social conventions or her husband’s commands. “I know Charlotte as a loving mother, not as hysterical.”

  Sir Frederick stared grimly into the flames. “You hardly know her, and please excuse the observation, but your interest in our family affairs seems remarkably pronounced.”

  “I mean no disrespect, Sir Frederick. Please believe me when I say that my reason for asking stems purely from my concern for your wife, and because Alison is so attached to her. That is perhaps a weakness of women, that we care too much.” Jane smiled apologetically.

  “I beg to differ, my dear,” said Dr. Cribb. “That is what makes your sex so attractive, but there are situations where a woman’s natural concern can take on an abnormally possessive aspect and become pathological.”

  “Are you suggesting that Charlotte is insane? That there’s reason enough to have her locked away in an institution—”

  “Nobody wants that,” Sir Frederick angrily interrupted her. “Me least of all, but if it comes down to sparing my wife from prison or even from the rope, then I would rather see her committed. How else am I supposed to explain to a court that my wife was found beside her son’s bed with a bottle of laudanum in her hand?”

  Jane paled instantly. “Oh, no! That doesn’t mean that she was going to give any of it to Cedric, does it?”

  “Did give it to him, my lady. I’m sorry to say. Miss Molan entered the room just in time to prevent anything worse.” The doctor sighed regretfully.

  Jane wished that David were there. She wanted to talk with him about how the situation was unfolding here. He was not the kind of man to act in haste, but instead he was able to cast circumstances in a fresh light and find the gaps in a chain of evidence. On the other hand, without her intuition and her often rash decisions, they would never have stumbled on to Mary’s trail or Rachel’s secret.

  “My lady? Would you come to the table?” Sir Frederick interrupted her thoughts, and dinner was served.

  During the meal, Jane avoided referring again to either Charlotte or the children, and instead she praised the cook: “The roast grouse with glazed carrots is excellent.”

  But the master of the house merely nodded absently. “I received a package today. From London. I may now declare that I am the first Englishman to possess a Sobralia mystica!”

  “Congratulations! How extraordinary!” Dr. Cribb raised his wineglass. “Now here’s to successfully cultivating it!”

  Sir Frederick’s face, which had until then been serious and rather strained, suddenly brightened. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Jane also raised her glass. “Is that the black orchid you were telling me about?”

  “Oh, no. If I ever actually got my hands on that specimen, I’d hire a dozen of the best guards. A man with a black orchid has to fear for his safety, maybe even for his life!” Sir Frederick’s cheeks were flushed, and it had nothing to do with the red wine.

  “My man in Colombia found the holy flower of the Motilone Indians for me and managed to spirit a number of the plants out of the country. Every time such plants survive their journey undamaged, it is a miracle. If you like, I’ll show you the orchids after dinner,” he offered.

  “It would be an honor,” Jane replied.

  Before the meal was over, however, the doctor was called to attend to his patient upstairs, which did nothing to improve Sir Frederick’s mood. He downed a glass of port. “Allow me to check on the health of my wife and son. Mr. Draycroft will bring you to the greenhouse later.”

  “Of course. I’ll write a letter in the drawing room.”

  A short while later, as Jane found herself standing in front of the porcelain figurines that Charlotte loved so much, a crippling sadness overcame her. She felt not only useless but naïve and helpless, caught in a tangled web of a family drama and a mysterious plot that was impossible to view with any clarity. It was this blindness that infuriated her most of all, because she trusted her innate belief that a crime had been committed regarding Rachel’s death. A terrible suspicion crept over her. What if Charlotte was truly mad and also responsible for Rachel’s death?

  Taking pen and paper from Charlotte’s desk, she started to write to David, knowing that it would help her put her churning thoughts in order. She had been scratching the quill across the paper for several minutes when a soft voice behind her asked, “My lady, may I disturb you?”

  Jane jerked around. “Heavens, you gave me such a fright!”

  One of the young maids was standing behind her with downcast eyes and hands clasped in front of her. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’ll leave.”

  “No, no. Stay, please!” Jane put the pen aside and wiped her fingers with a handkerchief. “You’re Della, aren’t you?” She recognized the dark-haired laundry maid whom she had only ever seen darting shyly through the corridors.

  “Yes, my lady.” The girl’s bonnet and apron were immaculately white, and her dress was neatly ironed. Mrs. Gubbins allowed no errors with the servants’ attire. Voices came suddenly from outside the door leading to the hall, and Della jumped a little.

  “Della, what can I do for you?” Jane encouraged the skittish young woman.

  Jane could see clearly that Della was having great difficulty saying what was on her mind. “You went to Rachel’s funeral.”

  “I was glad to be able to.”

  “And you went to visit Rachel’s parents. No one from the house ever did that.” Della took a deep breath. “Not even Sir Frederick.”

  “I would not hold that against him. He has a lot of things to worry about.”

  “He should have visited them, but all he has in his head are his flowers. People don’t matter a jot to him.” Della looked around fearfully and stepped closer to Jane. “My lady, I know that Rachel was going out to meet someone on the night she died.”

  “I think so, too, Della. Do you know with whom?”

  Della nodded. “You can’t tell anyone that you heard it from me.”

  “I promise.”

  The young woman lowered her voice to the merest whisper. “She went to meet Mr. Draycroft.”

  Jane looked at the anxious girl in surprise. “Really? Why are you only telling me this now?”

  “Because no one’s going to investigate Rachel’s death. She wasn’t a loose woman. She was a good person.” Tears came to Della’s eyes. “She was so pretty, my lady, and always so sad.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Draycroft entered. “My lady, may I show you to the greenhouse? I’ve brought your coat.”

  “Thank you, Della. Please take the towels to my room, then look in on Lady Alison, would you? She would no doubt appreciate some extras, too.”

  Della nodded, then turned and scurried past Mr. Draycroft, keeping her eyes on the floor.

  Jane folded the letter she had begun, then tucked it in her pocket and stood. As they walked, she asked Draycroft, “Have you ever considered a position in London? I’m certain that an attractive man such as yourself could earn much more there than you do here.”

  If her forthrightness took the butler by surprise, he did not show it. “Thank you, my lady. I am happy enough here.”

  He held the front door open for her, and the frosty night air rose to meet them. Jane turned up the fur collar on her coat. The snow had stopped, and a blanket of white crackled beneath her shoes.

  “I know a house where they would welcome you with open arms, so
to speak. The woman of the house is lonely, if you know what I mean.” Jane wanted to lure him out of his professional reserve, and it seemed she had achieved that when Draycroft softly laughed.

  “Ah, I see, my lady. I’m afraid I would be a disappointment.” He stopped walking, and when Jane turned to look at him, his smile spoke volumes.

  Jane thought of the exceptionally correct dealings she had witnessed between Draycroft and the female staff, all of whom seemed to adore him. “You . . . are not attracted to women?”

  “My lady, I admit nothing and I deny nothing. I have no desire to go to prison.”

  Homosexuality, Jane knew, was punishable with a prison term, depending on which judge tried the case. There were certain liberal circles where they laughed at such moral prudishness, but in public such “abnormal tendencies” were vilified.

  “You have my word that nothing we say to each other will go any further, Mr. Draycroft.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “But I do have a question. On the night of her death, Rachel had arranged to meet someone. Where were you that night?”

  Raising his chin, Draycroft said, “In the stables. There is a stablehand . . .”

  He was speaking the truth, Jane realized from his tone of voice. “Then why would you send a message to Rachel asking her to go to the hunter’s hut on the moor?”

  Draycroft opened his eyes wide in sudden shock. “Do you think that I . . . ? No! I swear I did no harm to Rachel. If such a message exists, then I would like to see it. I wrote no such thing.”

  “Would you give me a sample of your handwriting?”

  “Of course. Wait a moment.” He reached into a pocket of his suit. “This is a list of tasks that I assign to the male members of staff. Would that do, my lady?”

  “Thank you,” said Jane, pocketing the note. “Please forgive me for asking, Mr. Draycroft.”

  The butler indicated where the illuminated greenhouse shimmered beyond some tree trunks, and they continued walking on the frozen gravel path. “Rachel should never have taken her position here. She was not happy. If you ask me, she was on the run from something. But she did her work, and I am not in charge of the female staff. Have you already talked with Mrs. Gubbins?”

  “She doesn’t seem to be the kind of housekeeper in whom one can confide.”

  “Nor is her husband. The stable master carries out his duties with a strict hand.”

  Jane could well imagine what would happen if Mr. Gubbins caught Draycroft and his young friend in one of their secret trysts.

  “Here we are, my lady.” The butler held the greenhouse door open for her.

  “Thank you for everything, Mr. Draycroft.”

  The greenhouse was comfortably warm after the chill night air, but was not as hot as Jane had expected; it was more like the spring climate in the hills near her home, and she realized that the temperature had been lowered a little since her last visit. Even at this late hour, gardeners were busy with the plants and with keeping the ventilation system clean. A gentle breeze seemed to waft from below, causing Jane’s dress to flutter a little.

  “Ah, my lady, come in, come in!” Sir Frederick’s tall figure appeared from behind the large tree that filled the center of the greenhouse.

  Several open wooden boxes stood on the floor. Some contained linen sacks that had been sliced open, and Jane glimpsed earth and straw inside. Sir Frederick had rolled up his sleeves and was cutting thin hemp rope into pieces. Empty plant pots stood on a workbench beside a small trowel and other tools. Sir Frederick’s eyes were practically aglow as he lifted a small pot containing a rather unspectacular orchid from a shelf. “This is the one!”

  Jane reached for the pot, but Sir Frederick set the white-yellow orchid down on the bench.

  “It is exhausted from its long journey. We want to let it sleep again soon. Look at this delicate grain, the red dots. It is perfect! A beauty!” he said rapturously, his eyes trained on the object of his affection. “It is a marvel that this flower has survived. But look here, at these buds. In a few weeks, they will be a show of magnificent blooms. Then I will present it in London. Oh, you won’t believe the expressions on the faces of Cunningham, Parks, and even Day. They’ll see that I’m the best grower in the country. Not one of them has yet managed to find a Sobralia mystica, and each one of them has sent more men out into the world than I have. My instincts about Tomkins were correct. When it comes to people, they always are. Spies in my house be damned! I knew from the start that Derek Tomkins was the best in his profession.”

  “Spies?” The small flowers seemed to be staring at Jane and laughing at her. What a lot of fuss you’re making about me, they seemed to be saying, even as they were probably pining for the warm climes of their home country.

  Sir Frederick gazed at his orchid like a man besotted. “What? Oh, I had a number of applications from gardeners whom I knew immediately were Cunningham’s men.”

  Gardeners, thought Jane. Are they the only ones he means? Not a servant girl, perhaps, previously employed by Cunningham? “Where do these miracle flowers grow? It feels cooler in here compared with my last visit.”

  “You noticed that?” Once again, Sir Frederick seemed surprised at her perceptiveness. “Well, the temperature will be further reduced as December progresses to cause as little distress as possible to the plants. It is the resting phase in the orchids’ growth cycle, although the various species need to be handled differently. Cattleya orchids, for example, prefer temperatures between 54 and 66 degrees, and in the East India section we maintain the temperature between 60 and 72 degrees.”

  Peering into the open boxes, Sir Frederick crouched and took out a small sack that was still closed. Involuntarily, he let out a cry. “That is not possible. Adam!”

  One of the gardeners hurried over and threw his hand over his mouth when he saw what Sir Frederick was holding. “Sir, I’m sorry. I must have overlooked that one!”

  The middle-aged man reached for the little sack but Sir Frederick roughly pushed him away. “You stupid, useless fool! How could you have overlooked this? Do you have the slightest idea what this plant is worth? You won’t earn as much in your entire miserable life! Your Sunday off is canceled—for the next two months!”

  The man attempted to defend himself. “Sir, please, my mother is lying in—”

  “Go! One more word, and I’ll take the whip to you!” The man excused himself and backed away, head hanging. Sir Frederick, his face still red with wrath, set about freeing the orchid from its container.

  From inside the sack appeared a disappointingly small plant with dried leaves and withered roots. By that point, Jane thought it best if she took her leave.

  As Jane reentered the main house, Hettie came running excitedly. “Ma’am, you should come at once. Lady Alison is bleeding!”

  23.

  Seymour Street, London, December 1860

  David read Jane’s telegram a second time before letting out a groan. “I don’t believe it!”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. Certainly, Jane was smart and confident enough to face whatever challenges she confronted in the chilly north, but her improvident approach was constantly getting her into hair-raising situations—and driving David mad with anxiety. He had to admit, however, that in this particular case she was blameless.

  Blount sat across the table, on which lay Bill Pedley’s letters. “I hope nothing has befallen Lady Jane?”

  Apart from Jane, Blount was the only person David trusted unreservedly. Since his and Jane’s wedding, he appreciated the man even more knowing that Blount was utterly devoted to Jane. “No, although I am starting to fear that she might run into some danger up there. Someone went to the trouble of luring Rachel onto the moor with a counterfeit message. The butler has assured Jane that he was not responsible for the note, and if I understand her correctly, his interests lie less in pretty girls than in stableboys.”

  “Hmm. If that’s truly the case, he’s out of the running for su
spects. He could be lying, of course,” Blount considered.

  “Let’s assume for the moment that he’s telling the truth. Then there would have to be at least one person in the house who would know Draycroft’s handwriting and who could also forge it. A kitchen maid would be able to write no more than her name, at best.”

  “The housekeeper, perhaps? What was her name again? And her husband, that uncouth chap who runs the stables?”

  “There’s more. It seems Lady Charlotte tried to poison her son and has now been locked up in her own house. And there’s a tutor the governess has been meeting in secret.” David glanced up from Jane’s unusually thorough telegram.

  “That could mean everything or nothing at all. Love affairs and petty intrigues among servants are common enough. Look here, Captain, this could be something.” Blount tapped on a letter he had separated from the others.

  “Another love letter from that Cynthia and I’ll shoot myself.” David grinned, reaching for the pages. Cynthia had apparently been in India at the same time as Pedley and Korshaw and had fallen in love with Bill, but Pedley had not returned her affections as much as she would have wished, and no marriage proposal had eventuated.

  “‘Madras, July 1853. My dearest Bill,’” David read aloud, “‘I will miss you very much and cannot support your decision to leave India permanently. What do you expect to find in England? Like me, you have no family there anymore. Why can’t we start a new life together here? I would dearly love to look after you. Your wound does not deter me in the slightest, as I’ve told you a thousand times!

  “‘A man without a leg is far more appealing to me than a man without a heart! And there is so much goodness and decency in you that it brings me to tears to think that I will never again see your face.’” The letter continued in that vein for several lines. David skipped the rest of the paragraph and then, suddenly, the enamored woman had his attention again.