I guide my bicycle out to the road, one more anonymous cyclist among the many. I speed up only to slow down again as I wind through the clusters of tourists who clog the streets. The cobblestones near the Radcliffe Camera are slick with morning dew, my wheels slip and slide until I give up and walk gingerly to where the pavement starts again.
High Street is busy with taxis and double-decker buses. I hold my breath as I jump into the flow of traffic. I don't have far left to go; I can already see Magdalen's tower growing closer. It stands directly across the street from the entrance to the Botanic Garden.
I make a right turn into the small side street which borders the garden, and then a left into the garden proper. Fire, determination, and sheer grit run through my veins as I lock up my bike. Who knows? There could be someone inside holding a clue to the identity of the poisoner. I'm not leaving here until I've exhausted all possibilities.
After waving my university ID at the ticket counter and grabbing a paper map, I power on into the garden. Today, it has none of the buzz and excitement of last week, empty of trailers and busy crew members. Everyone has moved over to Somerset and life here has returned to normal.
A small child runs past me, chasing after a brightly coloured butterfly; behind him, his mother calls for him to slow down. I give her a smile of understanding as she walks by, reassuring her I'm not bothered by his rambunctiousness.
I follow the map until I reach the garden section where deadly plants can be found. There, amidst a riot of other flowers, I spy the delicate purple blossoms just like the one I found pressed against the side of Vivian's plate. The plants are set back in wide, wooden planters. A slender rope is all there is to block someone passing by from touching them. Small signs warning of the dangers hang from the rope.
I step back to study the scene. If someone were hunting for a potential poison, they wouldn't need to be a botanical expert to find one. The warning signage provides all the information one would need.
"A few sips of a tincture made from monkshood could be enough to prove fatal," I read from a nearby display. I don't have to guess where the poisoner got the idea for slipping the leaf into Vivian's drink.
Getting access to the plant would have required someone to step over the narrow rope and stand in the planter. They also would have needed a glove to protect their hand, and something to fashion as a plant cutter to cut through the stems. If this were a crime of opportunity, it would be likely the poisoner wouldn't have come prepared with the tools needed to cut a sprig. "They must have borrowed them from one of the gardener's sheds," I rationalise, looking around to see if there is one nearby.
Of course, there isn't one. Not here, in the middle of the garden pathways. I consult the map again, spotting a small cluster of huts in the far corner. The lack of labels on the buildings strengthens my suspicions that they are for staff-only. I turn around, identifying the right direction, and set off, keeping on the lookout for any gardeners or other staff who might be able to offer a clue.
"Maybe someone will remember seeing a footprint in the dirt in that flowerbed," I mutter under my breath. The roar of a lawnmower grows louder, giving me hope. I speed up, hoping to catch the person using it, but every turn reveals another trellis of flowers or tall hedge, blocking them from view. I realise they must be mowing the events lawn, which sits in the exact wrong direction.
I stick to my original plan, following the path as it takes me away from the noise of the motor. I pass more families and older couples, all making the most of the dreary summer day. If there isn't rain, locals and tourists alike have to content themselves with whatever weather they find. The vibrant colours of the flowers and burbling of the stone fountains are enough to brighten the day.
I consult the map again, finding I need to pass through the woods to get to the sheds. The old growth trees remind me of our first day on set. Edward, Harry, H, and I were all so excited and hopeful, no way of knowing the challenges in store for us.
A rustle in the trees catches my attention. I glance upwards to see a squirrel scampering across a branch, observing me from his perch. That thought leads to another, making me wonder whether the garden has any security cameras. If they do, I am sure Trevor will have already requested the footage. But of course, at the time, he wouldn't have known to look out for the impossible. I make a mental note to ask about cameras at the information desk.
Finally, I see the bank of the Cherwell River, the gently lapping water visible between the low hanging tree branches. I quicken my pace, suddenly desperate to get off the tree-covered pathway and out into the muted daylight. This section of the garden feels isolated, almost like it is no-man's land.
I burst from the trees, stepping into the light, and look up at the sky just in time to see a black shadow soar ominously over my head. The giant bird caws loudly, and then cackles.
The crow!
Before I have a chance to say a word, I hear a whistle of air and feel a hard whack to the back of my head. I crumble to the ground, the pain overwhelming me. The last thing I feel is two pairs of meaty hands grasping my arms and ankles to carry me off. The world fades to black.
❖
The smell is the first thing I notice. It is dank and loamy, the air heavy with humidity. It smells like freshly turned dirt and enclosed spaces.
I flutter my lashes, struggling to wake up. My clothing feels clammy with sweat. My mouth is dry, the coarse cloth gag cutting into the sides of my mouth. Realising something is wrong, I jerk my head up in shock and nearly pass out from the pain of the rapid movement. Gingerly, I scrunch my eyes shut and clench my teeth, praying for it to pass.
Slowly, the pain recedes enough for me to begin to make sense of things. At least I'm sitting upright, although my shoulders are aching furiously, forcibly pulled backwards with my arms wrapped around the chair back. I tug but can barely move my hands. Coils of garden twine scratch against my wrists and ankles, holding them secure.
Taking care, I ever so slowly turn my head to scan the room. In the gloom, I can barely make out my surroundings. Dark shadows envelop me, and only the faintest hint of moonlight shines through the glass roof overhead, providing a minimum of illumination. Tall green branches block most of my view. I must have been unconscious for hours.
I close my eyes again, letting my other senses take over. Gradually, I hear a drip, drip of water and then a small splash, almost like the one a frog makes when it leaps into a pond. I realise where I must be — tucked away, deep inside one of the Botanic Garden's greenhouses.
This must be the tropical greenhouse I read about in the brochure. I look around again, recalling what I read. Peering carefully, I can make out the edges of palm fronds high above me and smell a faint hint of citrus on the humid air. The brochure mentioned a small pond installed inside one end of the building, and fruit trees growing in pots at the other. I must be sitting in the middle, in the small space between the two sections of the building.
But how did I get here? And why am I tied up? Why am I by myself?
I churn through my memories. I had come to the Botanic Garden, searching for clues of who might be the poisoner. I remember wanting to interview the garden staff and deciding to search for someone near the utility shed. I followed the marked pathway, walking through the small woods. I saw the Cherwell and then… I stepped out of the shadows as something flew overhead. The crow!
Panic crashes over me, the truth of my situation settling in. I screech a muffled cry as terror blocks all rational thought. After nearly choking on the gag, I force myself to take in a few calming breaths. I am uncomfortable, but other than the wound on the back of my head, I don't seem to be otherwise injured.
I tug my arms again, nearly wrenching my shoulder out of the socket in my efforts to break free. Caught by Beadle and his gang of evil henchman! God only knows what they have in store for me. I clamp down, biting back a scream.
The moon is high in the sky, indicating it must be close to midnight. This late at night, gagged a
nd bound, no one will be able to hear me. Besides, the only people around are likely to be my captors. The last thing I want is to let them know I'm awake.
Escape becomes my top priority. I jerk my arms again and nearly topple over, putting paid to any further plans in that direction. I cast my gaze left and right, frantically searching for anything which might help. All I can see are leaves, stalks and tree trunks. None of which are of any use to me now. Surrounded by so much foliage, I'm probably not even visible from outside the building. I whimper, fearing no one will find me.
My handbag is gone, and with it my phone. Edward and H must have missed me by now, likely hours ago. As scared as I am, they must be feeling even worse, wondering whether I am even alive. I almost burst into tears at the thought. But no, I have to think positively right now. Fear isn't going to help me get out.
Edward and H won't sit at home, waiting for word. They will be out searching for me, and probably have been for hours. The two can cover much ground, H on high and Edward on foot. Will they recognise my bicycle locked out front? I'm confident they'll eventually discover it and search the confines of the garden, but that could be hours from now. Hours in which Beadle's Eternals could put their years of experience as torture masters to work.
"Think, Nat!" I shout inside my head. I need something more subtle than attempting to drag the chair across the ground in the hopes of finding an abandoned trowel. I twist my hands and feel around on the edge of the wooden chair, nearly sobbing when I find a sharp nail sticking out underneath. Just as I get my hands into position, with the bindings rubbing against the sharp point, I hear a door slam. Low ground lights flicker on, providing a minimum of illumination.
I freeze in place, terror rising again. After a moment of silence, I hear a gruff male voice coming from one end of the greenhouse. I'm not alone inside any longer. I rub the twine against the sharp point as fast as I can, hoping to make some headway while whoever came in the door is still out of sight.
It takes me a moment to work out what the man is saying, his accent is distinctly old-fashioned, making me think of the East End. It isn't a voice I've heard before.
"Guv, we got her like you asked, trussed her up so she ain't goin' nowhere."
"Excellent work, Ike. I knew you were the right Eternal for the task," another man replies. This voice is familiar. Even though I've only heard it once, I'm not likely to forget it. Its distinct nasal tone echoes off the glass walls and ceiling. It can only be Oswald Beadle.
"Let's see if our guest is awake, shall we?" he asks, their footsteps growing louder. Leaves rustle as they wind their way through the greenhouse aisleways.
The sound of wings slicing through the air pulls my attention upwards. A giant shadow swoops over my head, blowing my hair into my face. It is Beadle's crow. The vile bird flares his wings out, slowing his descent until he lands on the branch of a nearby citrus tree.
"Ah, Fenius, there you are," Beadle calls out, earning a caw in response from the crow. "Keep a watch out for Hobbes, please. He should join us shortly."
I track the moving leaves of the greenhouse plants, mentally preparing myself for when Beadle and his henchman will appear. I may be tied up, but I will not let this snivelling excuse of a man defeat me so easily.
Beadle appears first, stepping into the wide aisle where I'm seated. He's wearing the same trousers and hooded sweatshirt he wore on the day he set the Ashmolean archives on fire. I watched that security video so many times, I know them on sight. Up close, he looks utterly ridiculous in the casual clothing, like a grown man playing at being a teenager. He practically rubs his hands together in glee and leers when his eyes land upon me, trussed up like a present on Christmas morning.
I meet his gaze, letting my fury show in my eyes. If only I had a speck of H's fiery magic, I'd set Beadle on fire.
The leaves whisper again and a broader man steps through the foliage. This must be Ike. His shirt hangs loose over his ragged trousers. Bulging biceps threaten to rip through his shirt sleeves. His choppy blond hair is matted to his forehead, his cheeks pockmarked. His pronounced brow turns his eyes into dark shadows.
He doesn't look my way as all his attention is focused on Beadle. He stares at him in adoration, clearly worshipping the man who brought the magic to the Torture Museum and gave him a second existence. Any hope I had that Ike might be convinced to come to my aid disappears. This Eternal will never betray his master.
"Hullo, Natalie. Fancy meeting you here," Beadle drawls, chuckling at his own cleverness. "I must thank you for that. Here we were, wondering how we were going to capture you, Kate, and Mathilde, without anyone noticing. Then you so generously wandered off on your own, practically begging us to grab you."
Unable to speak, I growl in reply, making Beadle laugh again. He elbows Ike and points him my way. "Remove her gag, Ike. I have questions for Miss Payne here, and she can't answer them with your old handkerchief stuffed in her cheeks."
Ike leaps to do Beadle's bidding, circling around behind me. His clumsy, fat fingers take ages to undo the knot. When he finally pulls the cloth away, I turn my head to the side and spit the taste from my mouth.
Glowering, I bite the words out, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to untie my hands as well?"
Beadle smirks as he shakes his head. "I'd get used to the discomfort if I were you. Ike here is an expert at inflicting pain, but I insisted he hold back until we give you a chance to tell me what I need to know." He stops, his expression hardening. "After all, there's no reason to make the last moments of your life miserable."
Ike barks a laugh and Fenius the crow cackles, but I don't think Beadle means his threat as a joke. I slump in my chair, as though in defeat, but really I'm shifting so I have better access to the sharp point under the seat. If there is a time clock ticking away the minutes of my life, I don't intend to spend them sitting here, waiting to be rescued.
My mission is clear: keep Beadle talking long enough for me to break through the twine around my hands, and then hope like hell I can find a way out of here before Ike gets his meaty hands on me again.
Chapter Fourteen
Sweat rolls across my brow as I wiggle my wrists, scraping the twine against the sharp point of the nail. I move my hands up and down as quickly as I dare, but still frustratingly slow. I cannot afford to let Beadle or Ike figure out what I am doing.
Now to get Beadle talking. My mind races through everything I know about him. He's pompous and egotistical and has spent most of his life relegated to standing in someone else's shadow. I don't need three guesses to figure out what his favourite topic must be. Given half a chance, I'm sure he'll jump at the chance to lord his superiority over me, particularly now that he has me at a distinct disadvantage.
I pick up and discard any thoughts of playing the simpering female. It's too cliché; there is no way he will buy it. Plus, there is no chance I could stomach it for long enough to get him talking. I decide to pull an idea from Kate's playbook. With as much condescension as I can muster, he should rise to the bait and rattle on about himself.
"Do you need to wait for Hobbes before asking your questions, Beadle?" I drawl. "I presume he is the brains behind your organisation."
Beadle splutters, his neck flushing red. "Hobbes is dependent on me, not the other way around."
I arch my eyebrow and cock my head to the side. "Really? Are you sure about that? Without Hobbes and his knowledge of the magic, where would you be?"
"Where would I be?" he echoes, and then laughs. "Hobbes spent nearly four centuries languishing in the basement of the Ashmolean. He didn't dare risk showing his face. He had to bide his time, hoping one of his descendants would eventually discover the magic. He could never have dreamt up this plan."
Still sawing furiously away on my bindings, I retort, "What plan? Steal a bunch of random items from the colleges? Rob the Ashmolean archives? Betray your conspirator at the last moment? And now kidnapping? Sounds more like the efforts of an amateur, if you ask me."
> Oswald Beadle puffs up his chest, stomps over, and slaps me hard across the face. My cheek burns, and the pain in the back of my head flares up. For a split second, I fear I've gone too far. He rears back, as if to hit me again, but instead settles for wagging his finger in my face.
"How dare you speak to me that way," he growls, his voice growing louder. "You and Kate and the others… you all think you are so superior because of your magical bloodline. What have you done with the magic? Nothing!"
He spins around, walking back to Ike, his shoulders shaking with fury. He shudders, forcefully regaining his control. When he turns back my way, his eyes glower with hatred. I twist my wrists faster, scraping harder against the nail, even though sliding the twine up and down is rubbing my arms raw.
I steel my gaze, looking him straight in the eye. "So, tell me then, Beadle, about this great plan of yours. What have you actually accomplished here?"
I add a hint of disdain to my expression, goading him further. My challenge is unspoken but clear. If he wants me to believe he is truly an evil genius, he'll have to offer up some proof to back up his words. By accusing him of being a fraud, I can tell I'm getting to him.
Ike might be a thick-headed henchman, but even he has figured out I'm insulting his boss. He flexes his arms and steps my way. "We've had enough of your mouth, wench," he grunts, punching his fist against his other hand menacingly. He glances back at Beadle. "Want me to make her sing for you, guv?"
I can feel the cold drip of sweat running down my back as Beadle contemplates the offer. His wicked grin indicates he is thinking about letting Ike hurt me. The crow adds his gleeful agreement, cawing words of encouragement from above. I move my hands even faster, my arms rigid to disguise my motions. My hands grow slick, a sure sign my wrists are now bleeding.
Finally, Beadle reaches out a hand and rests it on Ike's bulging bicep, stopping him from getting any closer. "There's time enough yet, Ike. If you hurt her too quickly, she won't tell us how we can capture Kate and Mathilde, or who else knows about Oxford's magic. Perhaps if she knows who she's up against, she'll abandon any plans to hold out on us."
Sabotage at Somerset: A charmingly fun paranormal cozy mystery (Oxford Key Mysteries Book 4) Page 19