Death in Kew Gardens Read online

  “But why murder him now?” I asked. “If he received nothing?”

  Daniel spread his hands. “Sir Jacob might have given him something, promised him something, whether it was in his official will or not. He must have been fond of the lad if he’d been willing to accept him and take care of him. I imagine there are plenty of half-caste children all over the Orient whose fathers can’t be bothered to acknowledge their existence.”

  “Britannia rules the waves,” McGregor said dryly. “All those sailors need something to do on shore leave. Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Cynthia.”

  “No bother,” Cynthia said. “You should hear what the sons of the Home Office ministers say at their drinking establishments when they don’t realize a woman is near. Far, far worse, believe me.”

  McGregor scowled at her, his face reddening. “I’d think you’d want to spare yourself that.”

  Cynthia shrugged, too carelessly. “It’s a lark, isn’t it?”

  McGregor continued to scowl. “In any case, this son came to England looking for his father, and now both he and his father are dead.”

  He did not like this turn of events—I forbore from telling him that young Zhen likely was even more unhappy with the situation.

  “Did Sir Jacob come to meet him, I wonder?” I asked. “The night he was killed, I mean. He’d been to Kew Gardens for some reason. Perhaps he arranged to meet his son here.”

  “Possibly,” Daniel agreed. “Sir Jacob contributed so much to the garden he likely had the run of the place.” He turned to the constable who continued to look nervous in the presence of Inspector McGregor. “Did anyone see Sir Jacob here that night?”

  “No, sir.” The constable’s voice squeaked. “There was such a mist. We patrolled with lanterns as usual, but we could easily have missed someone in the dark.”

  McGregor’s disgust was evident. “I’ve had words with the sergeant, who is doing penance by searching every inch of this park with the rest of his men.”

  I’d wondered why the office was so deserted. I felt sudden sympathy for the Kew Gardens constabulary.

  Lady Cynthia directed her next question to Daniel. “What did Mr. Chancellor say when he found the body?”

  “He did nothing but make distressed noises and lose his breakfast,” Daniel answered. “I had to hustle him outside.”

  The constable made a faint retching sound. “You should have a cup of tea,” I told him. “You’ll feel better.”

  “Mr. Chancellor had a cuppa before he fled back to his plants,” McGregor growled. “He’s being a bit of a woman about things.”

  “There is nothing wrong with being a woman, Inspector,” I said. “We are sensible creatures and know we ought to fortify ourselves when things go wrong.”

  McGregor’s lips pinched. “Quite.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” Daniel said. “Lady Cynthia and Mrs. Holloway were anxious to help, but we’ll take no more of your time. Your ladyship.” He gestured to the door, and Cynthia took the hint.

  “Good work, Inspector,” she said. “Keep it up.”

  She marched out, putting on her hat and unfurling the umbrella as she hit the rain. McGregor watched stonily as I turned to leave, Daniel following. I took Cynthia’s arm, huddling once more under the umbrella with her.

  “This puts a different complexion on things,” I said to Daniel as he walked beside us. “Why would young Zhen come to Kew last night? Because he knew Sir Jacob’s tea was here?”

  “He could have been looking for clues to Sir Jacob’s murder,” Lady Cynthia suggested. “Everything is pointing back to Kew Gardens. Can’t imagine the committee, or whoever runs this place, is happy with that.”

  “We may never know why he came,” Daniel said. “Not for certain. Or why he made the long journey from China to find Sir Jacob after all this time. Or if he even knew about the tea.”

  “It fits though,” Cynthia said. “He heard that Sir Jacob absconded from China with a valuable tea plant, one that would make any person thousands of guineas if they sell it to the right buyer. Young Zhen takes ship to find Sir Jacob, perhaps simply to be with his father, but perhaps to learn what became of the plant. They meet at Kew Gardens, deep in the fog. It might have been a happy reunion; it might not have. Families can be hellacious things. Then Sir Jacob is killed, and Zhen searches diligently for the tea or other treasure, the same as everyone else in that house.”

  “Sir Jacob was very kind to him,” I reflected. “Many a man would ignore an illegitimate child, especially a half-caste one. Sir Jacob and Lady Harkness had no children of their own, so perhaps he wanted to leave Zhen as much as he could.”

  “Zhen couldn’t have believed Sir Jacob’s family would welcome him with open arms,” Cynthia said. “Hence the covert meeting in Kew Gardens—if he was indeed the person Sir Jacob came to meet. But here’s a thought. Perhaps Zhen followed Sir Jacob home, and he was the Chinaman Mr. Chancellor saw lurking. He told Inspector McGregor it was Mr. Li, because Mr. Chancellor either couldn’t see well in the dark and mist or he wanted to block Mr. Li from finding his tea. What better way than sending him off to Newgate?”

  “You are assuming Chancellor knows about the tea.” Daniel dodged the spokes of the umbrella. “We don’t know that anyone knew of it, except Mr. Li. The ‘treasure’ Lady Harkness’s housekeeper says the family friends are searching for might be a Ming vase.”

  “There are several in his house,” Lady Cynthia said. “Piled next to cheap junk from a souvenir cart.” She let out a laugh. “Not sure Harkness knew the difference.”

  “He may have purchased any number of valuable pieces,” I agreed. “But I will wager Mr. Chancellor was looking for the tea, or at least trying to decide what sort of tea is growing in Sir Jacob’s garden. And will it survive London’s climate?” I studied the drenching rain and gray sky, which rendered the grassy park and bedding plants a deep green in the gloom.

  “Tea likes cool mists and rain. It can be cultivated here if care is taken.” Daniel grinned at my surprised look. “I read up on it.”

  “Where is Mr. Chancellor’s haven?” Cynthia asked. “I’m getting soaked.”

  In spite of the umbrella, the breeze blew the rain over us, and I shivered under my thick coat.

  “In another greenhouse,” Daniel said. “A warm one. Not too far now.”

  Daniel had led us toward the outskirts of the gardens, and now we reached a much smaller building under a clump of trees.

  Stepping out of the rain into the greenhouse was a welcome relief. I unbuttoned my coat as Cynthia shook out and folded up the umbrella.

  Mr. Chancellor sat next to a small metal table, in his shirtsleeves, drinking heartily from a teacup. A long wooden box, such as those used for bedding plants, rested on a table in the middle of the room, holding clumps of large, flat leaves. Plenty of flowering plants in pots and boxes covered more tables and filled shelves along the windows.

  When Mr. Chancellor spied us, he leapt to his feet, nearly knocking over the table with his tea, and grabbed his coat, which he shrugged on.

  “McAdam, what . . . ?” He stared at Lady Cynthia. “Aren’t you her ladyship from Mount Street? Sir Jacob’s neighbor?” He turned a bit red, no doubt remembering how she’d scolded him for arguing with Sir Jacob in the middle of Lady Harkness’s garden party.

  “I am indeed,” Cynthia said. “I heard you had a bit of a shock this morning.”

  “I did.” Mr. Chancellor obviously didn’t know what to make of Cynthia in her trousers, but he settled his coat and said nothing more.

  Mr. Chancellor’s beard was as brown and bushy as I remembered, the hair on top of his head thin and graying. He was portly, but more solid than fleshy. An educated gentleman, I assessed him, with a scientific job.

  Cynthia scraped a wrought iron chair from the wall and sat upon it, waving Mr. Chancellor back down. “You found
the young man this morning.”

  Daniel fetched a chair for me as well, and Mr. Chancellor did not sit until I had sunk into it, sliding out of my coat in the process. It was quite warm in here.

  Mr. Chancellor let out a heavy breath as he resumed his seat. “Yes, as you say, a shock.”

  “McAdam told us about the night-blooming flower,” Cynthia said. “Do you often come in so early for such things? You’d need keys, wouldn’t you?”

  Daniel seemed to be happy to let her ask the questions. He lounged against an iron beam and quietly waited for Chancellor’s answers.

  “I have keys to the greenhouses, yes,” Mr. Chancellor said. “Though the park constables let me into the grounds. I like to work before the gates are opened to the public. Sometimes the punters interrupt me or ask questions—usually the way to the privies.” He snorted a cynical laugh.

  “What sort of work do you do?” Cynthia asked, sounding admiring. “Must be fascinating.”

  Mr. Chancellor looked pleased at her interest. “I examine stamens and pistils, do experiments to see if I can replicate a plant, or make it flourish. It’s to do with . . .” He broke off and turned quite red. “Reproduction.”

  “Ah.” Cynthia grinned at him. “A bit less lurid when it’s a plant.”

  Mr. Chancellor opened and closed his mouth, clearly at a loss. “It is absorbing,” he managed.

  “Must be. So you arrived early to see how your flowers were faring. Where do you do this work?”

  “Here.” Mr. Chancellor sounded surprised. “These are my plants.”

  I looked over the bright yellow and red flowers straining upward from their pots and boxes as though seeking the rain they could not reach.

  “In that case, why did you go to the Temperate House?” Cynthia asked.

  Mr. Chancellor hemmed, cleared his throat, cleared it again. His eyes moved quickly from her to Daniel and back.

  “To check on transplants,” he said at last, as though happy he’d thought of a plausible reason. “When I finish here, I take plants to beds in the Temperate House, where they are left to thrive, and also to serve as displays.”

  “Quite lovely they are too,” Cynthia said. “So you went to check your plants in the Temperate House, and found the young man facedown in the bushes.”

  Mr. Chancellor shuddered. “I didn’t realize he was dead. I thought he’d fallen—how or why, I couldn’t say. I was about to roll him over, when McAdam here reached me. We turned him over together. I was amazed he was Chinese.”

  “Then what did you do?” Cynthia asked.

  “I . . . well, I had a bit of a turn.” He gave her a sheepish smile.

  “Not a surprise,” Cynthia reassured him. “You must have been very upset.”

  “Yes. Yes, I was.” His eyes widened as he regarded her, as though being interrogated by a lady in a man’s suit was another part of the madness of a mad day. “Why are you asking me this, your ladyship? Are you assisting the police?”

  “Just want to get a clear picture,” Cynthia said cheerfully. “The inspector might accuse you, you know, and I thought you’d need a friend.”

  “Ah, I see.” Mr. Chancellor gave her a fervent nod. “I am grateful to you, although you might have to recommend a solicitor. I rarely use them.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. A botanist is not knee-deep in litigation, I presume. Why did you work for Sir Jacob?” she asked as though avidly curious.

  “He has interesting specimens.” Mr. Chancellor brightened, his fascination with plants cutting through his shock. “He’d brought back much from China and stuck it into his garden, and asked me, as I am an expert on Asian plants, how to take care of them. Had no idea how to grow the things in England.” He laughed breathily. “I had to explain that many of the mountain plants might like our wet weather, but they also prefer rocky soil, which drains easily. The roots will rot in our constant dampness.” He lifted his cup and took a calm sip.

  “Like the tea bushes,” Cynthia said.

  Mr. Chancellor choked. He dropped the cup to the table, where it rattled and bounced. He continued to cough, and Daniel leapt forward and smacked him on the back.

  Cynthia righted the teacup. “You all right, man?” she asked him.

  Mr. Chancellor nodded, and Daniel gave him a final pat and backed away. “Down the wrong pipe,” Mr. Chancellor wheezed.

  “I saw you, you know,” Cynthia said. “Taking a cutting from the tea bush in Sir Jacob’s garden. Why did you do that, I wonder?”

  Mr. Chancellor coughed some more. I did not correct Cynthia’s declaration that she’d been the one to see him in the garden—I waited to hear how Mr. Chancellor would explain.

  “I must beg you to keep that to yourself, your ladyship,” he said, contrite. “I would not like Lady Harkness to believe me a thief. But I was curious. Sir Jacob brought the bush back so carefully, asked me specially how to keep it thriving. I wondered if it was a significant sort of tea. So the morning after his death, I went to the garden and snipped a bit off, to bring it here to study.” He looked shamefaced but not guilt stricken.

  “And what did you find out?” Cynthia asked. “Is it some exotic species?”

  Mr. Chancellor shook his head. “Tea is all one species. Linnaeus believed that green tea and black came from two types of bushes, but we have since learned that they do not. The process of curing the tea is different, that’s all. The black is made by frying the leaves in woks and drying—” He broke off. “But that is neither here nor there. The tea was ordinary. I mean, as ordinary as a bush brought back from China can be. But no different from the thousands growing in Darjeeling or here at Kew. This was nothing special.”

  So Mr. Li had said, his disappointment acute.

  I could no longer keep silent. “Why did you tell Inspector McGregor that you had seen Mr. Li outside the house the night Sir Jacob was killed? How did you know it was Mr. Li?”

  Mr. Chancellor started. He stared at me, taking in my cook’s frock as though uncertain what to make of me, but he answered with conviction.

  “I know it was him, madam, because I saw him. I’d met Mr. Li before, when Sir Jacob invited him to his house to consult with him about some pottery—at least, that is what the chap said he was there to do. But I was suspicious, because Sir Jacob had gone out that night—Sir Jacob had given me leave to putter about his garden whether he was there or not. I feared Mr. Li had returned to steal the pottery the night Sir Jacob died. Perhaps he killed Sir Jacob when Sir Jacob stumbled upon him.”

  “You are certain it was Mr. Li?” I pressed. “Not the young Chinese man you found dead today?”

  Mr. Chancellor frowned as though thinking very hard, then he flushed. “Now that you say it, it could have been this young man. It was dark, and I only saw a man in Chinese dress.”

  I realized as he spoke that Mr. Chancellor was the suggestible sort. I wondered whether someone in Sir Jacob’s house had speculated that the Chinaman he’d seen was Mr. Li, and Mr. Chancellor had decided it was a good idea.

  “It hardly matters now, does it?” Mr. Chancellor said. “The Chinese chap is dead, and if I saw him outside the house, he probably killed Sir Jacob. So the murderer has already been punished.”

  He lifted his cup, looking pleased that he’d cleared everything up.

  I wondered if it occurred to him that we did not know for certain whether Zhen killed Sir Jacob, nor did we know who’d strangled Zhen, and why, and why the deed had been done inside the closed Temperate House at Kew Gardens.

  * * *

  • • •

  We left Mr. Chancellor enjoying his tea, much relieved in his mind.

  I was anything but. Mr. Li was missing, another man was dead, and Sir Jacob could have done anything with that tea—if it even still existed. I was cold and rain drenched, and I feared catching a chill from moving between warm moist green
houses and the windy damp.

  However, it was still my day out, and I more than ever wanted to see Grace.

  Daniel walked with us to the train. The rain slackened as we went, becoming a light mist, but it was cold—autumn had truly arrived.

  We reached the station and its relatively empty platform. As Cynthia approached the window to purchase the tickets, Daniel drew me behind a pillar and put his hands on my shoulders.

  “Are you well, Kat?”

  “As well as can be expected.” My words were scratchy. “I must tell Mr. Davis to cease making announcements about murders. I always believe it is one of my friends.” I recalled the horror I’d felt not many months ago when the friend I’d thought dead was Daniel.

  “I planned to send for you, or at least send word about the whole affair,” he said. “I had no time, and then here you were.”

  “You have no need to look out for me,” I said in surprise. “If I draw the wrong conclusions, then it is my fault.”

  Daniel’s fingers tightened. “I do have need. To look out for you, I mean.”

  Wind stirred his hair around the edges of his cap.

  “Really,” I said faintly. “I look out for myself.”

  “I don’t agree. You have murders in your house and next door, you give aid to fugitives—I include myself in this number—and you put yourself in danger. You need a guardian angel. Or maybe you have one, a very good one, seeing as you are still alive.”

  “Quite amusing, Mr. McAdam.”

  Daniel drew a breath to continue our banter, but then with a jolting suddenness, he dragged me against him and closed his arms around me.

  “Damnation, Kat.”

  Daniel was a strong man—I closed my eyes and leaned onto the solid wall of him, enjoying his warmth. There was something to be said for being held by a very good friend, a knowledge that one wasn’t alone in the world.

  We stood for a time, sheltered by the roof of the station house, the waning breeze drifting around us. Daniel stroked my back, and I sank into him.