scabbard the scalpel had cleanly cut in two—without so much as nicking his belly. Fowler heaved his bulk out of the carriage door and was about to bang it shut when the doctor froze him with a word.
“Mordecai—”
Fowler hurled a guarded scowl back at the shadowy figure. Coins chinked and then a flung purse smacked him in the chest. Fowler grunted and caught it by reflex. A fat coin purse filled his hand.
“You know what I am seeking,” the doctor said. “Find it and I can be even more generous.”
Fowler touched the brim of his battered bowler in badly feigned respect and slouched away, face fixed in a mocking leer.
Silas Garrette leaned back against the worn seat cushions, his eyes slitted in thought. The nostrils of his hawkish nose flared as he snorted, partly from disgust and partly to flush the stink of Fowler’s ripeness from his lungs. The lumpen buffoon had encountered some kind of gentleman in the cemetery. The details somersaulted in Garrette’s head. A gentleman? A walking stick? He thought of the duel and the encounter with the brash Lord Thraxton loomed in his mind, but he shook it off. Too bizarre a coincidence. But when he touched a hand to the Tarot deck in his pocket, the cards seemed to pulse under his fingertips.
There was no such thing as coincidence. This could prove a bad augury indeed.
Garrette reached up and knuckled the ceiling of the carriage. The driver shook himself awake and stung the horses’ ears with the tip of his lash. The carriage lunged forward and the heavy London traffic soon swallowed them up.
11
A R OMP IN E DEN
T he gardens at Kew spread over hundreds of acres of land. But its crowning glory was the greenhouses: glittering edifices of curved glass and ironwork that scintillated in the sun. The largest of these was the Palm House, the design of which presaged that most famous architectural triumph of the time, the Crystal Palace.
While the wan September sun was scarcely able to warm the chill from the day, inside the Palm House the climate was turgidly Amazonian. It needed to be to sustain the towering palm trees, breadfruit, elephant grasses, and the thousands of exotic plant species that grew in a burst of equatorial greenery quite dazzling to the senses. The effect of entering the Palm House was always remarkable, but especially so on a chilly day, for in a single stride one passed from the dull browns and muted earth tones of autumnal England into the humid fecundity of a tropical rainforest.
The Palm House was the bailiwick of Algernon Hyde-Davies, who was employed there as head botanist. It was his job to oversee the cataloguing and cultivation of all the thousands of new and hitherto unknown species of flora that arrived each day, shipped in from every corner of Victoria’s sprawling empire.
On this particular morning Algernon was in one of the smaller greenhouses overseeing the transplantation of seedlings ready to be moved into the Palm House. His staff of gardeners stood at a long table while they presented wooden flats filled with hundreds of seedlings for Algernon’s perusal. He moved along the line like a drill officer inspecting his troops.
“Too much light,” Algernon said, eyeing a flat filled with green seedlings whose leaves all had brown tips. “Try moving them to a more shaded area.”
“Yes, Mister Hyde-Davies,” replied the gardener.
Algernon moved onto the next flat. These were stunted and leaning every which way.
“Oh, dear,” Algernon exclaimed. He tugged one of the seedlings free from the soil and inspected it. The stem of the plant was long and thin, the tiny leaves half the size they should have been. The roots had black fungus growing on them.
“See that, Baines?” Algernon said holding up the seedling to the gardener, a young man of eighteen with a red spotty complexion and fiery ginger hair. “Stunted growth, small leaves, black on the root system. We all know what that means, do we not?”
He looked at Baines,
“Mordecai—”
Fowler hurled a guarded scowl back at the shadowy figure. Coins chinked and then a flung purse smacked him in the chest. Fowler grunted and caught it by reflex. A fat coin purse filled his hand.
“You know what I am seeking,” the doctor said. “Find it and I can be even more generous.”
Fowler touched the brim of his battered bowler in badly feigned respect and slouched away, face fixed in a mocking leer.
Silas Garrette leaned back against the worn seat cushions, his eyes slitted in thought. The nostrils of his hawkish nose flared as he snorted, partly from disgust and partly to flush the stink of Fowler’s ripeness from his lungs. The lumpen buffoon had encountered some kind of gentleman in the cemetery. The details somersaulted in Garrette’s head. A gentleman? A walking stick? He thought of the duel and the encounter with the brash Lord Thraxton loomed in his mind, but he shook it off. Too bizarre a coincidence. But when he touched a hand to the Tarot deck in his pocket, the cards seemed to pulse under his fingertips.
There was no such thing as coincidence. This could prove a bad augury indeed.
Garrette reached up and knuckled the ceiling of the carriage. The driver shook himself awake and stung the horses’ ears with the tip of his lash. The carriage lunged forward and the heavy London traffic soon swallowed them up.
11
A R OMP IN E DEN
T he gardens at Kew spread over hundreds of acres of land. But its crowning glory was the greenhouses: glittering edifices of curved glass and ironwork that scintillated in the sun. The largest of these was the Palm House, the design of which presaged that most famous architectural triumph of the time, the Crystal Palace.
While the wan September sun was scarcely able to warm the chill from the day, inside the Palm House the climate was turgidly Amazonian. It needed to be to sustain the towering palm trees, breadfruit, elephant grasses, and the thousands of exotic plant species that grew in a burst of equatorial greenery quite dazzling to the senses. The effect of entering the Palm House was always remarkable, but especially so on a chilly day, for in a single stride one passed from the dull browns and muted earth tones of autumnal England into the humid fecundity of a tropical rainforest.
The Palm House was the bailiwick of Algernon Hyde-Davies, who was employed there as head botanist. It was his job to oversee the cataloguing and cultivation of all the thousands of new and hitherto unknown species of flora that arrived each day, shipped in from every corner of Victoria’s sprawling empire.
On this particular morning Algernon was in one of the smaller greenhouses overseeing the transplantation of seedlings ready to be moved into the Palm House. His staff of gardeners stood at a long table while they presented wooden flats filled with hundreds of seedlings for Algernon’s perusal. He moved along the line like a drill officer inspecting his troops.
“Too much light,” Algernon said, eyeing a flat filled with green seedlings whose leaves all had brown tips. “Try moving them to a more shaded area.”
“Yes, Mister Hyde-Davies,” replied the gardener.
Algernon moved onto the next flat. These were stunted and leaning every which way.
“Oh, dear,” Algernon exclaimed. He tugged one of the seedlings free from the soil and inspected it. The stem of the plant was long and thin, the tiny leaves half the size they should have been. The roots had black fungus growing on them.
“See that, Baines?” Algernon said holding up the seedling to the gardener, a young man of eighteen with a red spotty complexion and fiery ginger hair. “Stunted growth, small leaves, black on the root system. We all know what that means, do we not?”
He looked at Baines,
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