by Annis Bell
“An orchid hunter? Who was he working for?”
“Various and sundry individuals. We examined his apartment in Fulham. He lived a spartan life and had just a basic furnished room in the home of an old seaman’s widow. For a man who had traveled so far and wide, there was little that pointed to the years he had spent abroad. If I had bumbled around those places for so long, I would have certainly brought home an exotic souvenir or two.”
“Maybe he was running out of money?”
Rooke nodded. “His landlady did not speak highly of him. He owed her two weeks rent. I haven’t had the time to go through all his papers, but among his earlier employers was a German orchid collector . . .” Rooke rummaged through the papers lying on his desk. “Ah, here it is. The man’s name was Sander. From what I’ve heard, he was an expert, really top of his class. Then there were three London nurseries, Veitch among them, and a customer in Northumberland.”
“Northumberland? You’re talking about Sir Frederick Halston, aren’t you?”
“Oh, that’s right, your wife is visiting Sir Frederick as we speak.” Rooke dug around in the stack of papers some more, then shook his head. “I can’t confirm that. All we have here are delivery dates and ‘F.H., Northumberland’ as the consignee. But I’ve got a man checking names. We’ll know more soon enough.”
“Is Sir Robert among Korshaw’s clients? He’s certainly rich enough, after all, and I know he likes nothing more than to trump others, whether in a game of cards or at auctions. You yourself mentioned that he and Sir Frederick were caught up in a competition to see which of them could display the most beautiful orchids.”
Rooke looked hard at David. “Are you keeping something from me?”
David sighed. “Jane drove up to Winton Park to keep her friend, Lady Alison, company. Alison is afraid for her cousin, Charlotte.” He briefly outlined the maid’s disappearance.
“I don’t know any more than you do. I can think of a thousand reasons why a maid would vanish. Usually there’s a love affair involved.”
Rooke’s brow furrowed as he delved deeper into the file. “Veitch has business connections to quite a few renowned orchid collectors: Robert Warner, Wentworth Buller, Lord Cunningham, and John Day, to name a few. Even if Parks and Halston are on their books, it proves nothing. These are men of impeccable reputation, not the kind I can simply walk up to and ask if they dispatched an assassin to steal a flower.”
“Pity.” David grinned. “How much did you say the orchids were worth? The ones that were stolen?”
“I’ll spare you the genus and species, but a single specimen could well have fetched fifty pounds at auction. Lose half a dozen of them, and it’s a major financial blow.”
“So it’s all about money. Is there anything more about Korshaw?”
Sergeant Berwin put his head around the door, and Rooke glanced up at him.
“Sir, there’s a young woman here who says she wants to speak to you and won’t be put off.”
“What kind of young woman, Berwin?” asked Rooke.
“Not that kind. Seems a decent sort. She’s from Ilford and wants money she claims Korshaw owed her.”
“Bring her in.”
“Yes, sir.”
David stood and made to don his hat, but Rooke signaled for him to stay. “This could be interesting. Like I said, a fox in the henhouse. It seems that Korshaw had gotten into some trouble with his clients, withholding orders to drive up the price, that sort of thing. Ah, thank you, Berwin.”
David leaned against a shelf along the wall, and Rooke greeted the new arrival. The young woman did not look like a prostitute. Her dark dress was simple and tattered, her boots and woolen shawl patched. She wore a scarf over her head and gloves with the fingers cut off. Her work-worn hands, pale face, and deep-set eyes bore witness to a life of poor food and trouble.
“Please have a seat, Mrs. . . . ?” Rooke pulled out a chair for her. “Berwin, bring us tea and a piece of cake.”
The sergeant, who had been waiting at the door, disappeared into the corridor. The woman looked around anxiously, shooting David a glare, then perched carefully on the front edge of the chair. “It’s ‘Miss.’ Miss Etta Ramsey. By rights, I ought to have been Mrs. Korshaw, but that two-faced liar duped me!”
David looked the woman over as she talked. He guessed she was in her midtwenties, and her red, cracked fingertips suggested that whatever she did for work involved water or lye; perhaps she was employed in a laundry or as a kitchen hand. What would a well-read, well-traveled man want with a young woman as ordinary as Etta Ramsey?
“Miss Ramsey, how did you hear about Korshaw’s death, and why are you here?” Rooke stood with his back to the window, resting his hands on the sill.
“I read about it in the paper and thought straight off it had to be my Jeremy who’d got himself killed.” Etta tugged at her gloves and stared at the toes of her boots. “I never had such a fine gentleman interested in me before. That sort o’ thing never happens to girls like me. But he told me I was something special and that he wanted a wife who could work and keep house for him. And that I can! I can work for two!”
Berwin returned with a small tray holding a pot of tea and a plate with a slice of fruitcake on it. Etta stared hungrily at the cake, and Rooke said, “Please help yourself. So, you’ve come all the way from Ilford, have you?”
The woman hastily swallowed a mouthful of cake. “Yes, sir, all the way from Ilford. I had to leave early to come with the omnibus and had to sit outside at that, ’cause that was the only seat left.”
Omnibuses were large coaches drawn by two or three horses that followed specified routes through London. The passengers sat crammed together on wooden seats inside and on top; those sitting on the roof were exposed to the elements. They cost little to ride and were very popular.
“Please tell us how you came to know Korshaw,” Rooke encouraged her, once she was finished with the cake.
“Thank you very much,” she said, a little color returning to her cheeks from the food and tea. “In my position on Grosvenor Square, I worked in the kitchen and in the herb garden. I know about herbs, learned it from my parents. They live in Ilford, too.”
Rooke and David listened patiently, for Etta’s connection to Korshaw was more than coincidental.
“Mr. Korshaw delivered flowers there all the time, and sometimes he spoke to me and asked me about the flowers in his lordship’s house. They kept a small hothouse in the garden, and ’cause I knew my way around plants I was sometimes allowed to help clean it up. His lordship said I had a bit of a green thumb, and that was the only reason why I was allowed in. That hothouse was like a holy place for him.”
“Uh, Miss Ramsey, where exactly were you, or are you now, employed?” asked Rooke.
“At Lord Cunningham’s, sir. I was not happy to leave there, but my parents needed me, and so I live with them now in their house in Ilford. We have a garden there, too, and I tend to that.” Etta Ramsey ran a finger along the edge of the scarf on her head. She had ash-blond hair and a mousy face.
“Cunningham!” David could not help himself. Obviously, Korshaw had used her to find out about Lord Cunningham’s orchids, then dropped her as soon as she left her post in the house.
“Mr. Korshaw was so kind and gentle, and he brought me little gifts sometimes. Twice he took me out to a restaurant, and that’s when he told me he was looking for a hardworking woman like me for his wife. But then I got the message that I had to go to my parents’ house. His lordship was very nice and understanding and paid me an extra month’s wages, and when I told Mr. Korshaw, he asked me for the money so’s he could make preparations for our wedding.”
David felt sorry for the woman. Fraudulent young Korshaw had swindled her out of the little severance she had worked hard to earn. And, what was perhaps worse, Korshaw had destroyed her dreams of a better life. She could expect nothing from the dead man’s estate. His outstanding rent would be paid first, and then there were burial costs. E
ven if the sale of Korshaw’s possessions brought any profit, Etta Ramsey, without so much as a promissory note from Korshaw, would not have claim to any of it.
After the deeply disappointed Miss Ramsey left, Rooke said, “Who would have thought a few orchids could cause so much misery?”
David nodded pensively. Of all the places Jane could be a guest, she was staying in the house of an orchid collector. He had to get home immediately and find out what Blount had uncovered.
Colombia, October 6, 1860
Dear Sir Frederick,
I cannot say with certainty precisely where we are at this moment. The mission station lay on the edge of the rainforest, and we have now ventured into the jungle. I am writing now to stave off insanity, for this forest is so dense and wet that I long to see the sky. It is as if I am wandering through a cave deep inside a mountain.
You may, of course, reply that I have been in rainforests many times, but this particular forest seems endless, its canopy so dense that barely a gleam of sunlight makes it through. On the other hand, that same canopy wards off the rain that usually falls at midday and in the afternoons. There is a proliferation of foliage and vines all around, and the sounds here envelop you as if you are trapped in an exotic cocoon. Parasitic growths are everywhere, and everything is so intertwined that there is a great danger of mistaking the flowers, fruits, and foliage of the various plants.
Dennis is in heaven. He fills his vascula with insects and exotic plants, things even I have never seen before. I know your only interest lies with orchids, but the sheer beauty of the mosses, lichens, and trees we are seeing here takes my breath away.
Please excuse my ravings; I can only blame the cachaça that sweetens my nights. José remains as loyal as ever, slashing the way clear for us with his bush knife. I am sure you remember my last letter, in which I wrote about the strange encounter with the Indian at the mission station? It seemed to me a sign from heaven that I should continue my search for the black orchid. I know well that this legendary orchid is your heart’s desire, so I have decided to follow the secretive Indians into the rainforest, although I must confess that I use “follow” euphemistically, for the inhabitants of the forest leave no traces. The only basis for my explorations are the stories told by the Indians and Sister Leonella at the mission.
The morning after seeing the old Indian, I talked with the good sister. She did not seem surprised when I told her about the encounter.
She said to me: “Do you know, Mr. Tomkins, I have been serving God for as long as I can remember. Before my order sent me to this continent, I was active in southeast Asia, but when I came to this tiny mission, here in the midst of all this wild nature, I felt that I was out of place.” The sister looked at me, and I saw in her eyes a mélange of despair, resignation, and fear.
“This rainforest belongs to the creatures that live in it, that live with it, and that respect it. I cannot speak so openly with Pater Antonio. He would call my words blasphemy, but I do not doubt in God!”
The good woman wrung her bony hands, her eyes skipping between me and the station and the rainforest. She wore the habit of a Carmelite nun, and it was clear she took her divine calling very seriously. I would go so far as to say that she truly lived it, and for this reason I attach great weight to her words. “No one would ever doubt that, Sister,” I said, attempting to reassure her.
Her careworn face relaxed a little. It may be that she was sick. Anyone who lives for as long as she has in the tropics will be struck by fever, and many suffer problems with their heart.
“You are not like other plant hunters, Mr. Tomkins,” she said. “Those men are brutal good-for-nothings in both thought and deed. You, however, understand the land and its people.”
Her words were flattering, even though I fear the devout woman saw too much good in me. I may be a philanthropist of sorts, but my work is of utmost importance to me. If I had put my philanthropic leanings ahead of my business decisions, well, there are some orchids that would never have been shipped to England . . .
“I do my best, Sister Leonella,” was my reserved reaction.
“I am not innocent, Mr. Tomkins. By accepting the habit, we do not lose our understanding of the ways of the world. On the contrary, with fewer distractions and worldly cares, our view can become clearer, and you may take my word that any lay sister would have seen the evil resident in the eyes of Mr. Rudbeck.”
I sat bolt upright, as if bitten by an ant. “Rudbeck? Where did you meet that man?”
The good sister nodded thoughtfully and poured water from a pitcher into two cups. She handed one to me. “Here. Drink.”
We were sitting on a wooden bench in front of the mission house in the early hours of the morning. The first rays of sun crept over the forest canopy and lit the clearing that surrounded the tiny station in the middle of nowhere. It took an inordinate amount of work to maintain the clearing. New shoots and invading tendrils had to be removed daily. If there was no one there to stand against the incursions of nature, then the forest would have quickly reclaimed what truly belonged to it.
“Mr. Rudbeck and his men spent a night here a week ago before moving on.” The sister folded her hands in her lap. “Bad master, bad servants. I heard them boasting about how they had molested a young Indian girl. She was a member of one of the forest tribes, if I understood them correctly. The poor soul managed to flee, but I would not like to find out what became of her.”
Such atrocities are often practiced against the Indians. Many of them come from peaceful tribes that do not defend themselves. Those of us who come as intruders are met by these simple creatures with a naïve openness that can easily spell their doom. But that is the law of the wild. The strong survive.
“Ever since, the old Indian has been sitting at the edge of the forest every night, staring at us. Sometimes I can’t see him, but I know he is there. The Indians can make themselves invisible.”
I did not know what to make of it. Was the old man trying to warn us? Or was he waiting for Rudbeck to return so that he could kill him? I must admit that I know little of the customs of these tribes.
“Where did Rudbeck go? Did he say what he was planning?” I asked.
“They talked about the Motilone Indians, and that they are said to be the protectors of a mystical flower. When Rudbeck and his men left us, they headed toward the northwest.” The nun spoke quietly, all the while observing a movement in the grass right in front of us. “Keep your feet still. The snake is after the rats that live beneath our house.”
A moment later, a sizeable red-brown snake slipped quickly by our feet and disappeared into a gap between wood and earth. I later described the reptile, which was decorated with a lovely pattern, to Dennis, who was shocked to discover that a poisonous lancehead had slithered so close to me.
The nun showed me where Rudbeck and his men had hacked their way into the rainforest. For this reason, I have temporarily abandoned my plan to find the Motilones and their holy orchid. If Rudbeck succeeds in finding it before I do, the Motilones will want nothing more to do with whites like me. I am well aware that I stare death in the eye every day I am out here. I am not afraid of a bullet, or of drowning in river rapids, or of dying from a snakebite. But what I do fear is a horde of furious wildmen who would bury me in an anthill or press bamboo stakes through my limbs to satisfy their thirst for revenge.
“Do you also envisage stealing away the holy flower of the Motilones?” asked Sister Leonella bluntly.
“Uh, well, not stealing, and they would hardly be likely to give it to me, so I was thinking more of buying one,” I stammered.
“That orchid is like a holy relic to the Motilones,” she said. “Would you go into a church and purchase the bones of a saint?”
The nun’s habit and her frail appearance belied Sister Leonella’s sharp perceptions.
“Of course not! But our relics don’t grow on trees, nor can they be replaced. If the Indians were prepared to hand over one or two little plants
in exchange for fair compensation, then in a few weeks they would not notice that an orchid was missing. Everything grows so fast here. You can practically stand back and watch!” I defended myself.
The sister poured the rest of the water from the pitcher into a cloth and dabbed at her forehead. The higher the sun climbed, the more oppressive the heat became. “What value does money hold for an Indian? They use it to buy cachaça and betray their own traditions. We are taking away their dignity, Mr. Tomkins. That’s what we are doing.”
I must admit that her words, plainspoken as they were, affected me deeply. Though I know that if I don’t get my hands on the holy orchid, someone else will come along and simply steal it. And people like Mungo suffer from far fewer scruples than I do.
“Sister, that is all well and good, but I have a contract and am paid for finding orchids and shipping them to England. There is nothing wrong with that. The English, after all, are happy to see the beauty of these flowers. No one but the monkeys and parrots would ever see them otherwise. I don’t necessarily have to retrieve a holy specimen, the theft of which would doom me to hell. The black orchid the old Indian wears around his neck would do just as well.”
“Black? I’ve never heard a word about a black flower. How can something like that exist? Black! I don’t believe that. But the old Indian you speak of belongs to a tribe that lives in the forest to the southwest. A three-day march in that direction leads to waterfalls that are said to be quite marvelous, but the tribe is especially shy and no one knows much about them.”
“Indians love magical sites, and that includes waterfalls. Maybe we’ll have some luck there. If not, we’ll certainly find orchids close by,” I replied, and the decision as to what route we would follow was made. That is how things work out here. One makes plans that the events of the next day render null and void. Very often, too, our maps are simply wrong. I rely more on my own sense of orientation and on the stars. I have always come through best that way.