Death in Kew Gardens Read online

  Nor did I intend to fetch Grace before I rushed off to Kew Gardens. I did not want her anywhere near where a man had been murdered.

  “Wait for me, Mrs. H.” Cynthia’s light footfalls sounded behind me. I slowed until she fell into step with me, Cynthia clad in trousers and greatcoat. “I saw the newspaper and came downstairs to tell you about the murder, only to see you racing out the door. Let’s get a hansom, shall we?”

  The cabbies who regularly roved this neighborhood knew Lady Cynthia, and one stopped as she waved him down. “Victoria Station,” she ordered. “Quick as you can.”

  “Yes, my lady.” He was more patient than the driver who’d taken Mr. Thanos and me home from Scotland Yard, and held the horse long enough for us to be seated before he set off.

  Waves of sorrow and anger poured over me—as soon as one ebbed, another came. “It isn’t fair,” I said, feeling hollow. “He’d done nothing.”

  Cynthia nodded her understanding, her face set in grim lines. I knew I had no absolute proof that Mr. Li hadn’t killed Sir Jacob, only my conviction, but my instincts had been correct before.

  The ride down Park Lane past the statue of the Duke of Wellington and along Grosvenor Place took what seemed an immensely long time. The cab rolled on past the gardens of Buckingham Palace before we alighted at Victoria Street and hurried into the massive station.

  Cynthia purchased the tickets, and we leapt onto the first train departing to the west. She’d procured us seats in a first-class carriage on an aboveground train, and we arrived in an hour at Kew Gardens station, where I had come with Grace on Monday.

  The garden wall rose before us, grim and gray, befitting a place that had witnessed a death.

  It must witness thousands of deaths, I thought incongruously. Plants lived, thrived, and then died here; some of the flora brought in from other continents perished. Not every living thing could stand the climate of England.

  The wind had pushed in clouds up the river, and now rain began. I hadn’t brought an umbrella, and neither had Cynthia, but we strode so quickly the drops hardly had time to wet us.

  The park was not yet open for the day, but the constable who had been patrolling on my last visit spied us and admitted us. I let him believe Daniel had given the order for him to do so.

  All was quiet beyond the gates. Gardeners puttered among the green near the pagoda, but none moved near the great structure of the Temperate House. A constable stood by that house’s front door, ready to bar our way.

  Before Lady Cynthia or I could demand entrance, the door opened and Daniel emerged. He was dressed in work clothes, hat in place, but his affable look was absent.

  “I thought you’d come,” he said. “All right, Constable.”

  The guard did not look happy to admit two ladies, one dressed as a gentleman, the other a domestic, but he obeyed Daniel.

  “What happened?” I cried as Daniel led us in out of the rain. “What was Mr. Li doing here?” I lowered my voice. “Do you think he found his tea? Is that why he was killed?”

  Daniel frowned. “Mr. Li? No, Kat. The dead man isn’t Mr. Li. It is a much younger chap. But I’m afraid McGregor thinks Mr. Li might have killed him as well.”

  I halted so abruptly that Lady Cynthia ran into me. She steadied us both with a hand on my shoulder, and I dropped the skirts I’d lifted from the damp, my hands suddenly numb.

  “Not Mr. Li?” I breathed out, the close, clammy air in the greenhouse making me dizzy. “Thank the Lord. Oh, thank the Lord.”

  “Forgive me,” Daniel said, his voice gentling. “I should have sent word. I didn’t realize you’d think it was our friend.”

  I hadn’t—Mr. Davis had said so, and I hadn’t looked at the newspaper to make certain.

  As I regained my senses, the second thing Daniel said struck me. “But Mr. Li couldn’t have killed anyone,” I protested. “He’s under house arrest, remember? Looked after by you.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve lost sight of him,” Daniel said, crestfallen. “He wasn’t at his boardinghouse last night when I looked in on him. The man he lodges with said he’d gone out not a half hour before I arrived, but Mr. Li never returned while I waited—and I waited a blasted long time. His fellow lodger was tasked to make certain Mr. Li stayed home, but apparently Mr. Li slipped out. I searched the area and never found him. Still haven’t. I don’t know where he’s got to.” Fury and frustration filled his words.

  “Well, if the dead man isn’t Mr. Li, who is it?” Cynthia demanded.

  “That is the question,” Daniel answered, his mouth a tight line. “I was here when the body was found, but I did not recognize the man. No one did. He’s been taken away, but I can show you where he was.”

  I appreciated that Daniel did not seem at all worried about taking the two of us to where a man had been killed. As we moved down a paved walkway, my relief let me notice the huge greenhouse now, the manor house made of glass.

  The ceiling stretched a long way to a lofty pointed roof. Rain pattered on the high windows, rolling to the lower roofs on either side of the enormous room. I could see the heavy clouds clearly, but we were protected in this bubble of glass.

  It was cooler here than the tropical Palm House, but we’d left behind the chill of the September morning. Plenty of palm trees lived here as well, but their fronds were different from the ones in the Palm House. I’d had no idea that so many sorts of palms existed.

  Shrubs thickly lined the walkways, along with trees with black, gnarled trunks hung with flowers of vibrant colors. Spiral staircases rose in opposite corners to a walkway with a white-painted wrought iron railing under the eaves.

  Daniel took us at a quick pace to a corner filled with orange trees in tubs, their swelling fruit still green. Between these a square bed held a clump of bushes with broken limbs, a depression marring the earth in the middle of them.

  Cynthia gazed at the ruined shrubs, gloved hands flexing. “How awful. And you don’t know who the bloke was?”

  Daniel shook his head. “All I know is that he is Asian—from what country, including this one, I couldn’t tell you. Mr. Chancellor found the poor chap. He shouted out, and I came running.”

  “Mr. Chancellor?” I asked in surprise.

  “Indeed.” Daniel carefully parted the bushes. “That is interesting, is it not? The fellow was lying here, facedown. At first I thought he might have suffocated in the mud, but there was a cord around his neck. A piece of leather, a common enough strap someone might use to hold down a load or secure box. Nothing significant. I had the constable outside fetch the Kew police sergeant. The sergeant in turn sent a telegram to Scotland Yard, and presently McGregor turned up. This all happened at about four this morning.”

  The newspapers had got hold of it rapidly, but newspapermen did. Newspapers went to press in London very early and were in the hands of readers only a few hours later.

  “What were you doing here at four in the morning?” I asked.

  “Helping Chancellor. He said we had to hand-pollinate a certain mountain flower, which opens only at night, and apparently there is but a small window of time in which to do it. He disappeared from his greenhouse without a word while I was back among the shelves, and I had to follow quickly to keep him in sight. He came here—and not long later found the body. He’s back in his greenhouse now, at his trays.”

  “Coolheaded of him,” Cynthia said, peering down the walkway.

  “He was most upset,” Daniel said. “Panic-stricken, even, but happy to leave the details of the police to me. Sending him back to his plants seemed the kindest thing.”

  “Hmm,” Cynthia said. “At least he didn’t flee, which could mean he had nothing to do with the man’s death.”

  “Or he is an obsessive botanist,” Daniel said. “More important to pollinate his flowers than run for his life.”

  “What are these bushes?” I
asked, indicating where the man had been found. “Not tea, I think.”

  “Laurustinus,” Daniel answered. “They flower in winter, white and pink, Chancellor told me.”

  “Are there tea bushes here?” Cynthia asked. I had told her Mr. Li’s tale as we’d traveled on the train, begging her to keep the secret, and she’d readily agreed, understanding why the secret was important. I hoped Mr. Li would forgive me bringing her into our confidence—if we ever found him.

  “In the Temperate House?” Daniel answered. “Yes. But not here. They’re on the far side.”

  “Possibly nothing to do with tea then,” Cynthia went on, but she sounded skeptical. “Or Mr. Li.”

  “Why was the dead man in the Temperate House at all?” I asked. “How did he get in, in the middle of the night? I assume the doors are locked, as some of these plants are valuable.”

  Daniel nodded. “All are valuable, some priceless. Some grow nowhere else but here or in their native home. So, yes, the doors are bolted and guarded.”

  I gazed upward at all the glass. The windows on the ground floor were tightly closed, but those under the eaves had been propped open for air.

  “Could a man scale the walls to the top windows?” I asked. “Did he appear to be athletic?”

  “He was slim and lithe, yes,” Daniel said. “It would be difficult, but not impossible. But guards look up as well.”

  “In the dark, on a cloudy night, with the guards unable to look all places at all times . . .”

  “As I say, not impossible,” Daniel agreed. “But no matter how the man entered, he did, and someone else found him, and killed him.”

  “Without the guards or constables hearing?” I asked.

  “It seems so.” Daniel’s voice held sadness.

  “I wonder if he saw an open window and took a chance,” Cynthia mused. “Which brings up the question—did he climb the walls to enter Kew at all, or hide while the gates were shut for the day? Was he hired to steal something specific? Or was he after something for himself?”

  None of us could answer.

  “May we see the tea bushes?” I asked.

  Daniel gave me a nod and led us through the great house. We passed the main entrance, and then went down a shorter walkway to a gathering of green bushes whose leaves were like those of the cuttings Cynthia and I had taken from Sir Jacob’s garden. So similar, in fact, that I would never have been able to tell the difference.

  “These have been planted from seeds brought back from the Himalayas, from Darjeeling,” Daniel said. “And those were originally taken from China. These are the full-grown specimens—they have others they study in smaller greenhouses that are closed to all but botanists.”

  “Will they let you into these greenhouses?” Cynthia asked. “As a botanist’s assistant?”

  “Only when one needs help carrying heavy objects. The greenhouses are full of growing trays and pots, seedlings and plants too delicate to move. The botanists experiment with light and heat, types of soil, amounts of water and what is in the water, as well as transplanting and grafting. They also dissect the plants to study them, and compare different varieties of the same species.”

  I took in the greenery around me, the trees reaching for the gray sky. “Why did the man come here instead of breaking into those greenhouses? These plants are large and well rooted.”

  “Unless he found it easiest to get into this place,” Cynthia said. “And didn’t know where the special plants were kept. And as Mr. Chancellor did, he could have stolen cuttings.”

  Daniel nodded. “He might have systematically been working his way through all the greenhouses when he was caught. But we don’t know anything except that he slipped inside here. Whether he meant to steal, or meet someone, or just wanted to look about, who is to say?”

  “A thief would have to understand that the plants were valuable and which ones to take,” I said. “Not everyone would know that.”

  “They ought to,” Cynthia said. “It’s blasted in the newspapers whenever they talk about Kew. I’m surprised the place isn’t overrun with plant thieves.”

  Daniel’s lips twitched, his face softening. “Not every man knows how to sell such things to the receivers. Your average thief is looking to shift silver candlesticks, fine clothes, pocket watches, handkerchiefs.”

  “But presumably there are people who deal in stolen plants,” I said. “Just as some must specialize in old books or paintings.”

  “Indeed, there are,” Daniel said. “There’s a market for everything in London, if you know where to look.”

  I glanced up at the rain pattering on the roof, the rivulets of water rolling down the glass. “I’d like to speak to Inspector McGregor, to perhaps find out if the dead man has anything to do with Sir Jacob, and Mr. Li’s purloined tea.”

  “We only think so because the newspapers said he was Chinese,” Lady Cynthia pointed out. “A tenuous connection.”

  “Murdered in a place where stolen tea might have been brought by a man who is also now dead,” I said. “More than tenuous, I think.”

  “I understand you, Mrs. H. I was trying not to get your hopes up.”

  “I have no hope at all of untangling this mess,” I said wearily. “I only want the inspector to leave Mr. Li alone.”

  “Mr. Li might be guilty of this crime, Kat,” Daniel reminded me. “I have no idea where he is at the moment, remember.”

  “Might,” I said. “I refuse to condemn a man with so little proof.”

  Daniel studied me, as did Cynthia. Then Daniel gave me an understanding nod and led us to a side door. He procured a large umbrella from a stand near the door and handed it to Cynthia before we went out into the rain.

  The umbrella was wide enough for Cynthia to share with me and keep her man’s hat from the wet. Daniel didn’t bother with one for himself but hunkered into his coat, pulling his cap low.

  He took us down the walks to the park constable’s house, opening the door to a warm, stuffy room that smelled of boiled tea.

  A counter upon which rested piles of papers and a box marked Lost Property divided the front of the room from the empty desks behind it. Notices about known thieves and warnings to park goers to mind their pockets hung on the walls.

  Daniel walked around the counter and down a narrow hall, knocking on the door at the end.

  “What is it?” came the snarl of Inspector McGregor.

  Daniel opened the door and ushered us inside. A table had been pulled to the middle of the room, leaving its chairs behind. On top of the table lay an unmoving human being covered by a blanket.

  A constable sat at a desk near a window, the young man trying to make himself small and unnoticed, a difficult task because he was so large. He jumped to his feet when we entered, hovering uncertainly.

  Inspector McGregor leaned over a desk on the far side of the room, resting his weight on his fists as he studied papers strewn there. He glanced around as we entered and did not hide his dismay.

  He managed to give Lady Cynthia a muttered, “Your ladyship,” before he glared at me and Daniel. “Not your case, McAdam.”

  “I’ve been told to take an interest. I’m sorry, sir. I know it is an annoyance.”

  “Don’t try to talk me ’round. This is enough of a bother without my superiors sending you to put your oar in. And you bring her.” He pointed a blunt finger at me.

  “Mrs. Holloway was distressed,” Daniel said before I could speak. “The newspapers only said the dead man was a Chinaman, and she feared Mr. Li had been killed.”

  “Well, he hasn’t been,” McGregor growled. “But he might have done the deed. I’ll not let you look at that body, Mrs. Holloway. Or you, Lady Cynthia. He’s been strangled, which is gruesome and not a sight for ladies.”

  The constable went a bit green at the mention, and I wondered if he’d ever seen a dead body be
fore.

  “He is a young man,” Daniel told Lady Cynthia and me. “I’d say twenty at most. Dressed in Chinese-style clothes but topped with a Western coat. All are in need of a wash, but of decent quality. I did not have time to look in his pockets.”

  “Well, I did,” the inspector said in a hard voice.

  Cynthia raised her brows. “You sound as though you didn’t like what you found, Inspector.”

  “What did you find?” I asked as McGregor closed his mouth again. “Could you discover who he is?”

  “I could.” The word was short. “He carried papers that let him travel to this country and an introductory letter.” He indicated the sheets that lay on the desk. “All are in English. His name, these tell me, was Zhen. Zhen Harkness.”

  15

  “Harkness?” Lady Cynthia exclaimed as my eyes widened.

  “Good Lord,” I said breathlessly.

  “Yes.” Inspector McGregor looked quite angry. “The letter claims that Sir Jacob Harkness was this young man’s natural father and that Sir Jacob looked after him and let him use his name. The young man came to England seeking employment, or so the letter says. The papers indicate he entered the country two weeks ago.”

  “And then his father was murdered,” I said softly.

  “That is so, Mrs. Holloway. A Chinese young man comes to England searching for his English father, and not long after that, his father is found dead. Doesn’t look good for the wife now, does it?”

  “Or another who didn’t want this fellow to inherit whatever his father might have left him,” Lady Cynthia suggested.

  “I had a look at Sir Jacob’s will,” Daniel said. “It is a public record,” he said to McGregor’s outraged face. “I saw it yesterday. No one by the name of Zhen Harkness was mentioned. Any son, for that matter.”

  “Doesn’t let anyone off,” McGregor said. “Maybe Sir Jacob was killed before he could change his will and leave part of his vast fortune to a Chinese by-blow. I can imagine the family and friends were incensed by this lad turning up.”