The Black Orchid (A Lady Jane Mystery Book 2)

by Annis Bell

  For the next half hour, they rode in silence, Jane following O’Connor. She took pleasure in the horse’s movements and the smells and sounds of the natural world around her. The track they were following grew ever narrower, with muddy earth on both sides. “I would not like to have to navigate these parts at night.”

  “That’s something to be avoided to be sure, my lady,” said O’Connor, reining in his horse at a fork in the path.

  “What’s that up ahead?” asked Jane, who had spotted a small building in the middle of the moor.

  “A hunter’s hut, used only in the summer. All of this belongs to Sir Frederick. We should turn back, my lady. There’s going to be rain.”

  The sky had turned dark, and wet weather was certainly in the offing. “No one would hide there, would they?”

  “In that hut?” O’Connor asked in disbelief. “I come by this way regularly, and I’ve never seen a stranger there. Rohan would let me know right off if someone was nearby.”

  At the mention of his name, the hunting dog pricked up his ears and looked at his master.

  They spoke little on the way back. As O’Connor helped her dismount, he said, “The Gubbinses have been here half an eternity. If there’s anyone around here who knows what’s going on, I’d not look past them.”

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Connor.”

  He looked at her with something close to sympathy. “For what? I’m only doing my job.” He wandered off, leading the horses by their reins.

  Jane knocked muddy earth from her boots with her riding crop. Beneath her long, black skirt, she wore close-fitting stockings that protected her from the cold. The elegant black hat she wore, like the sidesaddle, was another concession to the rules of decency. But the dagger David had given her certainly was not. He had trained her how to handle the effective little weapon, showing her how to defend herself with it. Jane smiled to herself. If Sir Frederick knew what she was keeping concealed in her boot . . .

  “Ah, Lady Jane! I trust your excursion was an enjoyable one?”

  Speak of the devil, thought Jane, this time smiling at Sir Frederick. “It was glorious! I must congratulate you on maintaining such a wonderful estate, Sir Frederick. The views across the forest and moor are exceptional.”

  Her host was also dressed for riding, and Miles was just leading his regal steed back to the stables to unsaddle it. “Aren’t they? I would gladly have given you a tour of it myself, but O’Connor is a reliable man. Or did you have some grounds for complaint?”

  “Most certainly not. He is cautious and had an eye to my safety the entire time. I fear I tend to be rather impulsive!” Jane said with a laugh.

  The trace of a smile crossed the man’s gaunt face; he was at least half a head taller than David. “Unbridled emotional actions are in a woman’s nature. Charlotte, I’m happy to say, is among the more sedate of your gender.”

  Jane cleared her throat. “You said you wanted to show me your hothouse? I’ve heard so very much about it. Even in London, they extol the depth of your knowledge and the extraordinary quality of your orchids.”

  Flattered, Sir Frederick raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? Well, I suppose I have carved out a certain reputation for myself. Why not take a look now? After you, my lady.”

  The hothouse was situated on the opposite side of the manor, behind an enormous elm tree, and in contrast to Veitch and Sons’ Nepenthes, it was an architectural gem. The steel-beam-and-glass construction on a solid foundation looked to Jane like a miniature version of London’s Crystal Palace. So this was how Sir Frederick was spending every penny. He opened the door and ushered Jane inside like a monarch granting a special guest a tour of his treasure chamber.

  “Please feel free to doff your hat and gloves. This is the East India section, and it is kept particularly warm.” He had already removed those items himself, leaving them on a table in the entrance area.

  Jane gazed around in genuine admiration; the place reminded her of her childhood in India. The smells and the warmth were comforting, and in the dense, green splendor the brightly colored orchids positively glowed. It was an incomparable spectacle beneath the building’s glass canopy. The irrigation and ventilation systems hummed and droned in the background, there was the sound of splashing water, and two gardeners in green aprons darted around busily among the plants.

  “My God, this is magnificent!”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Sir Frederick’s eyes gleamed, and he checked the leaves of a plant as they walked. “Did you know that the orchid dates back to Greek mythology? Orchis, the son of a nymph and a satyr, fell in love with a priestess of Dionysos. Orchis tried to have his way with the priestess by force, but she called on the wild animals to help her, and they killed Orchis. When the priestess saw him dead at her feet, she regretted her act and begged the gods to restore Orchis to life. The gods heard her and transformed him into an orchid.”

  Awestruck by the burgeoning life all around her, for a moment Jane could almost imagine the Greek story was true. The flowers there were not simply lined up on display as they had been in the nursery in London but were thriving among the palms and ferns. In the center of the hothouse stood a tall and very exotic tree, reaching toward the light with its twining network of branches—or were they roots?

  “Orchids are the most astoundingly adaptive plants in the entire plant kingdom. From their roots, one can ascertain precisely what type of region they originated from,” Sir Frederick lectured. “We are not even close to grasping all there is to know about these queens among flora, but we are collecting data, and, of course, the plants themselves to try to understand them in their tremendous variety. Look here. Thin roots and soft foliage indicate that this orchid lives in a cloud forest. It is dependent on humid air and the formation of dew. Orchids from dry regions have firm leaves and thick roots to store water.”

  Jane discovered a small orchid with a cluster of closely spaced white flowers with purple stripes radiating outward. “Where does this orchid come from?”

  “Oh, that is an Encyclia radiata, a rather demanding species; they live in South America and Mexico. But here, this is Phalaenopsis aphrodite! White as snow on the outside, then unfurling to reveal her delicate, vulnerable innermost parts, as yellow as the yolk of an egg.” Sir Frederick lovingly gazed at the blooms.

  “Not even Veitch and Sons have more beautiful plants!” Jane looked around. “And their hothouse isn’t really—”

  “You’ve been there? Have you read the news?” Sir Frederick interrupted her.

  “No. What news?”

  “An employee of Veitch and Sons was found dead in Nepenthes! Plants are extremely sensitive . . .” With his long fingers, Sir Frederick plucked at the leaves of an orchid.

  Shocked at the sudden revelation, Jane took a step backward, knocking over a pitcher from a shelf. It shattered as it landed on the stone floor. “How horrible!”

  “Come, let the workers take care of that.” Sir Frederick led her onward through the green depths of his hothouse. “I buy regularly from Veitch, although I have my own man in the field searching for special plants. One must stay among the leaders of the hunt.”

  They stopped before a magnificent white orchid with five finger-shaped petals that appeared almost frayed.

  “Look at this. The labellum protrudes like a tongue painted in violet and yellow.”

  Jane gathered that the lowest petal, which looked like a lip, had to be the labellum.

  “This is Cattleya dominiana, the first successful crossbred orchid created by a human hand. Such crossbreeds are also known as hybrids, and the man who created it was John Dominy at the Veitch nursery. This new flower bloomed for the first time last year. Dominy created it by crossing two Brazilian plants; it was an absolute sensation! It is hard enough to get orchids to bloom here at all.”

  “I hope it wasn’t this Mr. Dominy who died?”

  “If it had been, they would certainly have mentioned his name in the newspaper. But please understand, my lady, t
here is much more at stake here than the breeding of plants. We are pioneers in the botanical field! There are so many secrets waiting to be uncovered in the world of orchids. There are species that are as rare as rubies and as beautiful as what we see in our dreams . . .”

  Jane looked at the orchid and tried to imagine how it was possible to breed a new flower from two different plants. “Where is your man in the field right now?”

  “Colombia, or New Granada, or whatever it is called these days; it depends on which of those savages is in power. Tomkins is an experienced orchid hunter and has already sent me many wonderful plants. But one still eludes him . . .” With a frown, Frederick Halston walked on.

  Jane pushed back a palm frond that was obstructing their path. It was slowly getting too warm in the hothouse, and the humidity was becoming uncomfortable. “What could you possibly still lack?”

  Sir Frederick wheeled around to face her, glaring at her with a strange, almost crazed expression. “The black orchid!”

  “Sir Frederick!” Jane heard Mr. Draycroft’s voice, and the butler joined them, holding a letter.

  “I won’t trouble you for your time any longer. Thank you!” Jane said and hurriedly retraced their footsteps out of the hothouse.

  Reentering the manor house, she checked the large grandfather clock in the hall. It was already past midday, and her stomach felt empty. She turned and saw an older woman in a snug-fitting black dress fussing about; the woman’s expression was stern, and a collection of keys dangled from her waist. Jane realized that she was looking at Mrs. Gubbins. The housekeeper seemed to be in the process of checking whether the place had been kept properly clean in her absence.

  “My lady,” she said politely, bowing her head at the sight of Jane. “I am Mrs. Gubbins, and I am accountable for the household. If there is anything you wish for, please come to me. Has everything been to your satisfaction so far?”

  “That is very nice of you, and thank you, I have been well attended to since my arrival. Would it be possible to have a light lunch sent up to me?” The housekeeper was slim and had no doubt been very attractive in her youth, but now she looked careworn. Deep lines had carved their way into the skin on either side of her mouth, and a crease on her forehead mirrored inner disquiet.

  “Very well, my lady.”

  An excited Hettie was already waiting for Jane in her room. “Ma’am, there you are! I was getting worried!”

  Jane tossed her hat and gloves onto the bed then sat in an armchair. Hettie went to unlace Jane’s boots.

  “Where did you go riding? And with whom? And how was it? And—”

  “Hettie! One thing at a time. How is Alison?”

  “Lady Charlotte went to a lot of trouble on her behalf and seems to know much about herbs and medicinal concoctions. Lady Alison is resting now, and her fever has not gone up at all. Nora says that both Miles and Mr. Draycroft had their eye on Rachel. Oh, and that Sir Frederick was seen with her in the hothouse!”

  Hettie eased the first boot from Jane’s foot.

  “That is definitely interesting, but one shouldn’t go drawing conclusions too hastily.” Jane told Hettie about her ride with O’Connor and her visit to the hothouse. “I think Sir Frederick shows practically every visitor his orchids! He is positively obsessed with those flowers! And, oh . . .” She told Hettie about the dreadful event at the Veitch and Sons nursery.

  Hettie clapped a hand over her mouth. “Good gracious! And we were just there!”

  There was a knock at the door just then, and a maid entered with a tray bearing tea, sandwiches, and warm apple crumble. Hettie breathed in the aroma of the delicious dessert.

  “Mrs. Gubbins is back, too!” said Hettie a short while later, polishing off the last morsels of apple crumble.

  “I’ve already met her. Where was she?”

  “Visiting her mother, who lives close to York. She’s been ill. Della told me that Mrs. Gubbins didn’t like Rachel, who apparently had gypsy blood, which Mrs. Gubbins felt would only bring calamity.”

  “Gypsy blood? Hettie, we have to visit Rachel’s family, but I must send a telegram first.”

  10.

  London, November 1860

  “Good morning, sir. Would you like anything in particular for breakfast?”

  The voice was unfamiliar, and David, still sleepy, looked up at a face he did not immediately recognize. It took him a moment to remember that he had joined a card game the night before, had drunk too much, and so had stayed in the club. “Ham and scrambled eggs. Toast and tea.”

  “Very good, sir. They are drawing a bath for you right now.” The butler silently closed the door behind him.

  He was not proud of the previous evening, for he had drunk more than was good for him and had gambled away more money than he could really afford. Normally, he calculated precisely how much he could afford to lose and left the table when he reached his limit. But some devil had been riding his shoulder, whispering in his ear that she had left him alone and that it was his right to do damned well whatever he wished. When he lifted his head and the hammering started to make the anvil ring inside his skull, he groaned and closed his eyes again. His tongue felt furry, and his stomach was far from happy.

  It was the first time he had felt like this since he had been married. A smile crept into the corners of his mouth. Whatever initial misgivings he may have had about his marriage, that headstrong, independent woman had swept them all aside with her impulsive ways. Her ready wit and her passion for everything she did drove him mad, but also mad with . . . He hesitated. So far, both of them had avoided speaking about their feelings. No, he would not let himself be turned into a sentimental fool.

  He swung his long, powerful legs resolutely over the side of the bed and stood, breathing deeply to settle the rebellion in his stomach. He knew that a decent breakfast would make the world seem like a friendlier place.

  A little while later, his hair still wet from a refreshing bath, he sat in shirt and trousers at a table in front of the window. He had a good view of St. James Street, where he could see night owls shamefacedly attempting to hail a coach, trying to get home as discreetly as possible. Very likely they were going home to face a wife who, like them, had her own life to lead. A wife who would politely welcome them home, not asking where they had been and what they had done, and who expected the same courtesy in return. These were the kind of couples who appeared together as expected at social functions, but who had little to say to each other otherwise. It was exactly the kind of life that he had supposed for himself, because he had not been prepared to allow another human being to get as close to him . . . as Jane had. Yet she had turned everything upside down.

  He ate the last mouthful of breakfast. Brooks’s was a second home to many gentlemen, and not without reason. Those who ran the club knew exactly how to tend to the members’ well-being, but he still would have preferred to have eaten at his house on Seymour Street, to share the newspaper with Jane, and to talk about the latest developments in China or the everyday concerns of the household with her.

  There was a knock at the door, and the butler brought in a telegram and a message. David opened the telegram and pulled out the thin strips of paper inside. Jane’s brief report about her research was not revelatory, but what she wrote about the inhabitants and staff of the estate did little to reassure him. Knowing Jane, she was probably already on her way to Crookham to question the family of the maid who had disappeared. Alison was ill and Charlotte continued to suffer from dizzy spells. He was not to worry . . . My love, Jane.

  He smoothed out the strips of paper and leaned back. Maybe it was time to set one or two things straight between them.

  The message, from Michael Rooke, was an invitation to meet him at the police station.

  When he got to the station, Rooke was standing in the corridor talking with a policeman. Upon seeing David enter, he dismissed the other man with a jovial thump on the shoulder, then turned to the captain.

  “Good morni
ng, David!”

  “Michael!” The men shook hands and went into Michael’s office.

  “What a night! We had a fight at Madame Velmont’s place in St. Giles.” Rooke took his seat opposite David and ran his hands through his hair. Dark shadows under his eyes bore witness to a mostly sleepless night, and his clothes were so rumpled and creased that it looked as if he had not had time to change them from the previous day.

  “Just a fight?” Madame Velmont’s brothel was located in one of the city’s most disreputable quarters, but its customers came from every walk of life and every layer of society. If Rooke had been personally called there, it must have had something to do with an important customer, someone who did not want to find himself caught in a scandal.

  Rooke snorted. “It’s the same old story. Rupert, the son of Sir Robert Parks, went on a little bender last night, then found he could not pay. Not the first time that had happened . . . so Madame Velmont threw him out and banned him from the establishment.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be in Rupert’s place. Sir Robert can be an unpleasant character . . . but is that why you called me here?”

  “We’ve done some poking around in young Korshaw’s past, and we stumbled across a number of inconsistencies. Jeremy Korshaw had been with Veitch for six months. Veitch’s nerves, by the way, are at a breaking point, and I don’t know whether it’s Korshaw’s death that is affecting him most or the loss of several extremely valuable orchids that he was planning to sell in an upcoming auction.” As he spoke, Rooke toyed with a pen that lay atop a stack of files.

  “As a businessman, his first thoughts are probably for his losses, though I don’t want to do the man an injustice,” said David tersely.

  “Veitch’s employees have all been there a long time and seem very satisfied, but with Korshaw, it seems that Veitch had dropped a fox in among the hens.”

  “How so?” asked David curiously.

  “Before Veitch, Korshaw spent a year unemployed, and according to Veitch, he had kept his head above water using his savings and an inheritance. From 1854 to 1858, Korshaw worked in India, Mexico, and Colombia as an orchid hunter.”