The Black Orchid (A Lady Jane Mystery Book 2)

by Annis Bell

  Hettie was scanning the corridor. “Sir Frederick. Mrs. Gubbins also has one on her large key ring.”

  “And Gladys?”

  “No, Gladys has to ask Mrs. Gubbins to let her in whenever she wants to visit Lady Charlotte. In the meantime, she’s downstairs helping with the laundry.”

  Jane poked around in the lock with a hairpin, but to no avail. “Hmm, give me the knitting hook.” The tool had a wire hook on the end.

  Hettie handed it over and watched in fascination as Jane deftly picked the lock. “Well done, ma’am.”

  “Shh. Stay here and keep a lookout. If someone comes, knock twice.” Jane slipped into Charlotte’s room and was immediately enveloped in a nauseating stench. It was normal for bedrooms to get stuffy if they were closed up because the mattresses were usually stuffed with horsehair then covered with four or five sheets. Though it varied dependent on the housekeeper, a household’s sheets were usually rotated every two weeks. This meant that sleeping on a freshly made bed was rare, and bedbugs were a constant problem.

  Living in her uncle’s house, however, Jane had grown used to meticulous cleanliness and had since kept her own home scrubbed and spotless. This included a weekly changing of the sheets. Mrs. Gubbins, however, took a thriftier approach, as Jane had discovered to her chagrin. And there, in Charlotte’s room, the stink of old sheets mixed with the reek of vomit.

  Charlotte lay on her bed in a nightdress and dressing gown, clearly under the influence of powerful sedatives. The heavy curtains had been closed, and the room lay in a permanent twilight. Pressing her hand to her mouth, Jane hurried to the window and threw it open. On a sideboard she found a number of bottles containing scented oils.

  Rose? Too weak. Lavender? Good. Smelling salts? Just the thing. Jane trickled a drop of lavender oil onto a handkerchief and held it under her nose. Then she went over to the bed and wafted the smelling salts around Charlotte’s face. The poor woman looked more dead than alive, hardly a surprise considering how much laudanum and ether she’d probably been given. Indeed, it seemed almost a miracle that the frail woman was still alive.

  “Charlotte, dear Charlotte! It’s me, Jane. Don’t worry, I want to help you.” She patted Charlotte’s cheek and lifted her head from the pillow.

  A bowl of water stood on the bedside table. Jane moistened a cloth and wiped Charlotte’s mouth and nose clean. Then, using all her strength, she pulled Charlotte’s limp body away from the vomit and to the other side of the bed, until she finally had Charlotte lying clear of the mess. Charlotte’s hair fell wildly over her forehead, and some life slowly returned to her weak body. She coughed, gasped for air, and began to choke. A bucket stood beside the bed. Jane picked it up hastily and held it in front of Charlotte, but all the poor woman could spit out was phlegm before sinking back onto her pillow in exhaustion.

  “Here. Breathe this in again.” She waved the smelling salts under Charlotte’s nose, and Charlotte finally opened her eyes.

  Her pupils were dilated and black, but they began to focus, coming to rest on Jane’s face. In a hoarse, barely audible whisper, she said, “Why is he doing this to me? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Charlotte, tell me exactly what had happened in Cedric’s room before Miss Molan got there.”

  Charlotte’s lips were dry and cracked, her skin mottled, and the dark shadows under her eyes made her look like a ghost. “Nothing! Ceddie was lying on the bed. He was asleep.”

  Speaking was clearly a strain for her, but Jane did not let up. “What then? Something must have happened.”

  She held a glass of water to Charlotte’s lips, and the sick woman sipped a little before continuing, “There was a bottle beside his bed. I don’t know any more . . . I was trying to read the label when he woke up and saw me and began to scream. I tried to calm him down, just calm him down, but he kept on screaming. I held him tightly. It was horrible . . .”

  “And then?”

  Charlotte closed her eyes again and nodded. “She pulled me away from my son and said I wouldn’t be able to do anything more to him. That I had already done enough damage.” A strangling sob racked her emaciated body. “I love my children. They are my children! They belong to me . . . don’t take them . . .” She mumbled some confused, unintelligible words.

  “It will be all right. It was all a misunderstanding. Frederick wants only the best for your children.” But Jane was uncertain what to make of Charlotte’s words. Her reaction was excessive, obsessive. What if the doctor was right? What if she would rather drug or injure her children than be separated from them?

  “Charlotte, listen to me.” She stroked Charlotte’s cheek and waited until the woman had opened her eyes and was looking at her. “You can’t scream and thrash anymore. Do you hear me? You have to be calm and reasonable, or they will lock you up.”

  Groaning, Charlotte’s lips quivered. “Don’t lock me up, no—”

  “If you act normally, then you won’t have to take this stuff anymore. Then you will be able to think clearly again. Do you understand?” Jane held her chin firmly and looked her in the eyes.

  Charlotte nodded gently and tears filled her eyes. With a sigh, Jane picked up the moist cloth and pressed it into Charlotte’s hand. “Here. And . . .”

  She heard two knocks at the door and jumped to her feet. “I’m not supposed to be here!”

  Terrified, Charlotte frantically shook her head. “Don’t go, please,” she begged. “They hate me! They never wanted me here!”

  Jane heard a woman’s voice at the door and saw the doorknob slowly turn. Where could she hide? Behind the screen? Her feet would be visible. There was only the small space behind Charlotte’s four-poster bed, the curtains of which were draped around the headboard. Jane pushed herself into the space and quickly arranged the drapes to cover herself.

  Moments after she had pulled in her hand, she heard Mrs. Gubbins’s domineering voice. “What’s all these stories, my lady? You’re causing us nothing but grief. Poor Sir Frederick, the things he has to put up with. He doesn’t deserve any of this. What a misery. You should be ashamed of yourself, doing something like that to him and his children.”

  Jane heard Charlotte whimper.

  “Oh, whine all you like. That’s all you ever do. The first Lady Halston would never have done that. She would never have let herself go like you have. Look at yourself. It’s disgusting. I’ll send Gladys up to change the sheets. It’s a waste is what it is. We changed the sheets just last week, and now look what you’ve done.”

  Jane stayed as still and calm as she could, breathing softly, trying not to move the bed-curtains. Mrs. Gubbins was so busy with Charlotte that she took no notice of the heavy material.

  It sounded as if Mrs. Gubbins was fluffing the pillows. Water splashed, and the metal bucket rattled. “Well, haven’t you done a fine job here, messing your bed while the bucket’s on the floor. Not like we’ve got much else to do. We’re only here for the likes of you, after all.”

  “Get out of here!” Charlotte croaked.

  “I’ll go once I’ve got things squared away here, and then I’ll see to it that everything else in this house is shipshape. Oh, go ahead and close your eyes. Drink your medicine, and you’ll be right as rain.” Jane heard a cork pop out of a bottle, then a spoon being picked up.

  The bed shook. It sounded as if Charlotte was refusing to take the laudanum. “You ungrateful woman! You’ve spat on me!”

  Had Charlotte meant Mrs. Gubbins when she’d said they never wanted her here? Was it Mrs. Gubbins who hated Charlotte so much? So much that she would devise a plot to get Charlotte committed to an asylum?

  “And just when Sir Frederick is about to see his biggest triumph. You don’t appreciate them wonderful flowers at all. It means nothing to you that your husband’s one of the best experts there is when it comes to orchids. At least I read The Gardeners’ Chronicle.”

  The bottle was put down, and the spoon clanked as it fell onto the tray where the medicines stood. Jane hea
rd the little dog bark from across the corridor.

  “I’m off now. I’m sending Gladys up to make the bed, then I’m going to tell Sir Frederick about your obstinate, churlish behavior. If you ask me, the doctor ought to give you another injection.”

  The rattling of keys accompanied Mrs. Gubbins to the door, which then closed behind her, the key turning in the lock. Jane cursed silently. Hettie would never be able to pick the lock! She was sitting in a trap, but at least the overbearing Mrs. Gubbins had not noticed that the door had been unlocked and the window opened.

  Cautiously, Jane extricated herself from her hiding place, then pinched her nose to stifle a sneeze. She quickly leaned over Charlotte, who had curled up like a child and was crying softly into her pillow. “Charlotte, I’m going to go speak to Sir Frederick, and I’m going to swap the laudanum for water. Then you can drink some when they tell you to, all right?”

  Jane plucked the cork out of the small bottle, poured the laudanum into the orchid pot that was standing on the dressing table, and refilled the bottle with water. “Look, just water.” She shook the bottle to mix the few remaining drops of opium solution with the water, giving it a brown color similar to the original potion.

  “All right,” Charlotte murmured, her teeth chattering.

  From the other side of the door, Jane heard Hettie call out quietly. “Ma’am!”

  Jane thought fast. She could not climb out through the window, and the house had no balconies. The door that joined Charlotte’s room to her husband’s was a possibility. “Hettie, go into Sir Frederick’s bedroom and open the connecting door.”

  “What if someone catches me?”

  “Then run!”

  Jane went to the center of the long wall, where the door to the adjoining room was. As expected, it was locked, but after a few seconds the key turned on the other side, and then Hettie was standing there, beaming at her.

  “Quickly, ma’am. It sounds like there’s a whole crowd coming up the stairs!”

  They ran through Sir Frederick’s bedroom, which was only slightly larger than his wife’s and furnished with similarly plain furnishings. Jane put her hand on the doorknob at the exact moment that voices passed by in the hallway.

  “That’s Sir Frederick with Mrs. Gubbins and Gladys,” Jane whispered, silently praying that the master of the house would not enter his bedroom.

  The trio outside seemed to be in a hurry. They heard Charlotte’s door being unlocked, then closed again. Jane opened the door and looked up and down the corridor carefully—apart from an occasional potted plant, it was empty—then dragged Hettie out behind her. After she had silently closed the door, she exhaled loudly.

  “Good. I have to speak to Sir Frederick alone. But how am I going to manage that without making him angry?” Jane tapped her foot, then noticed Della hurrying excitedly up the stairs toward her.

  “Oh, my lady, have you seen Mrs. Gubbins? Her daughter is here. Imagine! She’s been away in India!” Della was trying to catch her breath. “Such a lovely woman.” She giggled. “I would never have guessed she and Mrs. Gubbins were related.”

  Jane smiled. “Wait here, Della. I know where to find her.”

  She knocked at Charlotte’s door, which Gladys opened. As far as Jane could see, Sir Frederick was sitting on the side of his wife’s bed, and Mrs. Gubbins was talking to him intently.

  “Tell Mrs. Gubbins that she is needed downstairs urgently. She has a visitor.” Before Gladys could close the door again, Jane wedged her foot in and pushed past Gladys. “Sir Frederick, could I have a minute of your time?”

  Staring at her darkly, Mrs. Gubbins addressed Gladys. “Whoever it is can wait.”

  “Mrs. Gubbins, surely you don’t want to keep your daughter waiting? Especially after she came all the way from India?” Jane warbled.

  “Go,” Sir Frederick growled. “I detest nervous biddies hopping around like chickens.”

  Her expression stony, Mrs. Gubbins left, and Gladys closed the window and drew the curtains. It had certainly grown cold in the room, but the stench, at least for now, was bearable.

  “Gladys, go and get two new pillows and fresh bedcovers,” said Jane before the maid could begin peeling off the sheets.

  Reluctantly, Gladys looked at her. “But—”

  “Immediately,” Jane insisted.

  Sir Frederick was still sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his wife’s hand. Charlotte lay with her eyes closed. “I don’t understand this. I would not have thought it possible.”

  “Sir Frederick, if you will allow me to speak about this, I don’t believe that Charlotte did anything to hurt your son. It could have been someone else in the house,” Jane began tentatively.

  Sir Frederick abruptly released Charlotte’s hand and stood. “What are you talking about? Who would have grounds to do anything to my son? Keep your nose out of my business!” he thundered.

  “And what about Mrs. Gubbins? She makes your wife’s life hard because she can’t get over Charlotte’s predecessor!” Jane shouted back, louder than intended.

  Sir Frederick paused, taken by surprise. “Really? I did not know that, but Charlotte is the woman of the house, and she has to command the necessary respect herself. I can’t be responsible for everything. The big orchid exhibition will take place in London this January. The Queen herself has announced that she will attend and present the prize for the rarest and most beautiful orchid. I have other things to worry about than my servants’ squabbling!”

  “Look at Charlotte. Please don’t let the doctor inject her again. She is utterly exhausted. I—”

  At that, Charlotte opened her eyes. Upon seeing Jane and Sir Frederick together, she sat up sharply. “You traitor!” she screamed, glaring at Jane. “You’ve made a pact with the devil, you—” Charlotte choked and gasped for air, her eyes staring wildly.

  Sir Frederick angrily ground his teeth. “Enough! Go and see to Lady Alison. This is my job.”

  Reluctantly, Jane stepped out into the corridor. Passing the staircase, she glanced down to see Mrs. Gubbins talking with a young blond woman who could only have been her daughter.

  Before returning to Alison, Jane wrote a telegram to David; she was beginning to doubt if she could help Charlotte at all anymore.

  25.

  London, December 1860

  Together, David Wescott and Martin Rooke made their way along the street toward Veitch and Sons Royal Exotic Nursery. The recent snow had frozen the streets into a filthy mass. Coaches had a hard time driving over the sharp-edged ruts, and injured horses were commonplace. It was a difficult time for those who lived on the streets, too. Without a warm place to sleep, simply surviving became difficult.

  “So what’s become of that urchin you took in, David? Robbed you blind and fled on his heels, I’ll wager?” Martin joked. His closely cropped hair was hidden beneath a woolen cap. David had never seen him in a top hat.

  “Actually, no. Myron is a clever young lad, and he hasn’t disappointed me. Levi has taken him under his wing and is teaching him to read and write.”

  Martin Rooke laughed. “Watch out, or word will get around.” Then, more seriously, he said, “This cold weather will take its pound of flesh.”

  Chestnut sellers had set up their small stoves on street corners and could not fend off the needy swarms who merely wanted someplace to warm their frozen limbs.

  “I don’t think Myron is about to let anyone take his place.” They had reached the steps leading up to the elegant entrance of Veitch and Sons. “Why is Veitch only now coming to you with this information?”

  Rooke whacked his snow-smeared boots with his walking stick. “That’s what we’re about to find out.”

  They were greeted by a young man wearing a black suit and green apron emblazoned with the company crest. He took one look at Rooke’s calling card and led them straight to Mr. Veitch’s private office.

  The old man greeted them with an anxious smile. A tray with tea and shortbread stood on his desk. �
�Gentlemen. Please take a seat and help yourselves.”

  David doffed his hat and set it on the table, and Rooke rolled up his woolen cap and tucked it into his coat pocket.

  Veitch, a white-haired gentleman with a pince-nez on his pale nose, waited until both men had served themselves tea. “The cold has come too early. It is so damaging to my plants. I’d be lost without my greenhouses, but heating them in the winter is expensive. Without my exclusive clientele and their willingness to pay, I would have to close up shop.”

  Rooke cleared his throat. “Mr. Veitch, you called us here to tell us about Korshaw’s concealed activities.”

  The businessman sighed. “The impatience of youth. I do not chatter idly, dear sir. My only aim is to make clear to you what this is all about. We are not some corner nursery, but a company with international associations. I supply orchids to the Continent, and I have customers in France and Prussia.”

  “I met Lord Cunningham at my club. He is a major orchid collector and another of your customers, if I understood him correctly?” David inquired politely.

  “One of many notable gentlemen. That brings me to the reason for your visit: Korshaw was involved in independent dealings with my customers. Such an impertinence . . . and I trusted the man! I took him into my company with no good references and offered him a fresh start. Sheer ingratitude, that’s what it was. Sheer ingratitude!” Veitch was shaking.

  Rooke and David exchanged a glance, then David asked, “I take it Korshaw was dealing in orchids? Where was he obtaining them?”

  Veitch slid forward to the edge of his chair. “Yes, of course! Orchids are the only way to get rich in this business these days.”

  “You do realize, Mr. Veitch, that you have just given us a motive for Korshaw’s murder?” David watched the grower’s reaction curiously; he did not believe the man capable of murder.

  “What? Oh, balderdash, I’m not about to kill my best gardener. That is what he was—an exceptional gardener. He did tell me that he had been a businessman in India, but his true talent was with flowers, and especially orchids. The plants seemed to thrive in his presence; it was as simple as that.”