Murder at the Royal Botanic Gardens (Wrexford & Sloane Mysteries #5)

PROLOGUE

The floral fragrances—a symphony of subtle sweetness—swirled with the earthier scents of mist-damp leaves and the nutrient-rich soil. The gentleman closed his eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath.

The essence of Life. There was nothing more beautiful, Josiah Becton mused as he stood very still in the shadows and let the warm air caress his cheeks.

Moonlight flickered through the soaring glass-paned walls of the magnificent conservatory, its silvery softness twining with the gold-hued glow of the lanterns hung among the exotic greenery.

The faint sounds of a string quartet—was it Mozart or Haydn?

—floated out from the assembly room attached to the rambling structure, the lilting notes punctuated by discreet laughter and the crystalline click of champagne glasses.

It was all so . . . elegantly civilized, this international symposium of botany scholars and wealthy patrons of science, gathered at London’s legendary Royal Botanic Gardens in order to share their knowledge for the good of mankind.

Becton slowly released a sigh. “But I am far more at home in the wilds of the world, where the flora and fauna have not yet been disturbed by the footsteps of men. Exploring . . . searching. . . learning . . .” His words trailed off as he meandered down the brick pathway, delving deeper into the vast assortment of specimens gathered from around the globe.

The music gave way to the whisper of the leaves and the drip of water feeding a section of succulents from the West Indies.

His steps brought him to a smaller room that housed the treasures brought back from the islands of the South Pacific by Sir Joseph Banks, the noted scholar and adventurer whose tireless efforts over the years had established the Gardens as the leading repository of botanical specimens in the world.

“Ah, the South Pacific,” murmured Becton, bending low to examine the lush colors of a tropical flower. “Perhaps the Antipodes should be my next destination. Granted, it is so very far away . . .” A twinge of regret pinched at his chest.

So little time, so much to know.

“I see you are admiring the efforts of Sir Joseph.” Fronds rustled as a gentleman slipped past a cluster of leafy brake ferns.

“He is an inspiration to all of us who believe the natural world holds unlimited potential for improving the lives of all people.”

“Ah, but you, too, are an inspiration, Mr. Becton.”

“That’s very kind of you to say. But such praise is undeserved. I’m merely a curious traveler who is happiest in the solitude of the jungles or mountains.” He quirked a wry grimace. “I’ve always been far more comfortable with the company of plants than people.”

His companion chuckled. “I fear that a passion for science makes all of us odd fish.”

Becton smiled.

“Your work has always been quite special—ye heavens, your solitary journeys have taken you where few others have managed to go! Everyone here is eagerly awaiting the lecture on your explorations through the northern reaches of the Spanish Empire in South America, and all your fascinating experiences. The sense of wonder . . .” His companion allowed a pensive pause. “And discovery.”

“Yes,” agreed Becton. “As a fellow man of science, I know you understand that such opportunities can simply take your breath away.”

“Indeed, indeed.” A muted rustle of well-tailored wool. “Come, I took the liberty of bringing along some champagne. Let us raise a toast.” His companion offered him a glass. “To discovery!”

“Thank you, sir, but no.” Becton waved away the wine. “The marvelous botanical specimens here are intoxicating enough.”

“Nonsense, my good fellow. You have crossed the ocean from America to be here for this grand occasion. Surely, that calls for celebration—and the effervescence of champagne!”

“Alas, the years of traveling under constant adversities like heat, cold, and pestilence have taken their toll on my constitution. My physician forbids the use of strong spirits.”

“Sparkling wine is hardly strong spirits,” protested his companion. “A few sips to acknowledge the spirit of collegial friendships that have brought us here, from near and far, surely can do no harm.”

The lantern’s glow danced over the cut crystal coupe. Becton watched the tiny bubbles beckoning like myriad diamond-bright points of fire.

“Quite right,” he agreed, taking the proffered glass. “With so many dark forces at play in the world—war, disease, hunger—we must celebrate the light of knowledge and the hope it brings for the future.”

“To scientific triumphs that will change the world,” said his companion with a beatific smile.

Glass kissed against glass, setting off a sonorous ring.

“A lovely vintage, don’t you think, Mr. Becton?”

“Yes, I—” A sudden, strangled cough cut off his words. “F-Forgive me, I seem to be . . .” He reached out a hand to steady himself on one of the display pedestals, only to feel his knees begin to buckle.

“. . . Feeling unwell,” he gasped as he slumped forward, spilling the rest of his wine. A fierce pain spiraled through his gut, drawing a guttural moan. Everything was turning black as Hades. His head was spinning . . .

His companion plucked the glass from his spasming fingers. “It’s all right,” soothed the man’s voice. It sounded very far away. “All your mortal aches and pains will soon be over.”

Another drunken lurch as Becton felt himself sinking, sinking into darkness . . .

A thud echoed in the muffled crack of terra-cotta pots as his thrashing arm knocked several specimen plants to the stone floor.

“Rest in peace,” murmured his companion, crouching down beside the American explorer’s still-twitching body. “Your discovery will live on—I promise you that.” His voice was solemn, but betrayed not a ripple of remorse. “Though it won’t be you who reaps the rewards that will come with its fame.”

The gentleman waited for the final death throes to cease before shifting the crystal stems of the two glasses to one hand and beginning a methodical search of Becton’s waistcoat pockets.

“Eureka!” He smiled as he extracted a small brass key. “Thank you for making this easy.”

The display room was once against quiet as a crypt, the moist air undulating through the fanciful silhouettes of the plants as they settled back into a peaceful slumber. Rising, the gentleman smoothed the wrinkles from his trousers and disappeared into the gloom.

* * *

A bevy of footmen, resplendent in their royal livery, circulated through the crowd, discreetly ringing handbells to signal that the gathering in the conservatory’s reception room was coming to an end and the guests were to exit and make their way along the graveled walkway to the nearby Kew Palace, where a gala supper was soon to be served.

“The bells are quite unnecessary,” said one of the governors of the Royal Society, the illustrious scientific organization that had created the symposium.

“Once the pop of champagne corks ceases, everyone will quickly understand that it’s time to move on.

” He waggled his brows. “I understand that a very fine claret and German hock are to be served at the banquet. After all, man cannot live on the fruits of knowledge alone.”

The quip drew a round of chuckles from the small circle of scholars standing with him.

The governor gave a courtly wave toward the brass-framed glass double doors. “Shall we proceed, gentlemen?”

Other groups were also beginning to drift toward the exit, still engaged in lively scientific discussions with frequent terms in Latin echoing amid English, French, and German.

“Has anyone seen Mr. Becton?” asked the leader of the American delegation, after sweeping the room with a searching look.

“I believe I saw him wander off into the main conservatory, Dr. Hosack.” A vague wave accompanied the answer. “It looked like he might have been heading for the section that houses the South Seas specimens collected by Sir Joseph Banks.”

Hosack smiled. “Becton tends to lose all track of time when distracted by plant life. I had better go fetch him. He’s absentminded enough to forget all about supper.”

“We’ll come with you,” offered a pair of Royal Society members. “It’s easy to lose your way if you’re unfamiliar with the twists and turns of the walkways.”

The three of them set off, but no sooner had they passed through the first display when a shout of alarm shattered the stillness.

“A physician!” came the panicked cry. The thud of boots echoed like gunfire against the night-dark glass panes. “Help, help! A physician is needed!”

“Ye gods.” Hosack started to run, only to skid to a stop as he rounded a turn and came to a fork in the walkway.

“This way!” One of the Royal Society’s members grabbed his sleeve and pulled him to the left. The lamplight turned jumpy as they raced down the narrow slate-flagged path, setting off a dance of jagged shadows.

“Help, help!” A gardener burst free of the gloom, his face tight with fear. “A gentleman has collapsed near the South Seas specimens and I . . . I think he ain’t breathing—”

Hosack gave the fellow a hard shake. “Take me there—quickly, man, quickly.”

Drawing a steadying breath, the gardener nodded and turned around.

Palm fronds slapped at their coats as they shouldered through a cluster of tropical trees. And then the lush vegetation gave way to a display alcove filled with tiny treasures—

A body lay sprawled on the paving stones, half shadowed by the marble pedestals.

Dropping to his knees, Hosack touched a finger to his friend’s throat, but one look had already told him that he wouldn’t find a pulse.

“Damnation, he’s gone,” he muttered, feeling a sharp stab of both anger and regret at the unholy bad luck of the Grim Reaper’s choosing Becton at this, of all moments. “Why now?” he added in a whisper, just loud enough for his own ears.

A brusque cough. “My condolences, sir,” said one of the Royal Society’s members. “I heard mention that your friend had a bad heart.”

“He did suffer some troubles while in the wilds,” acknowledged Hosack. “Though of late, after proper medical care, he was much improved.”

“I’ll go alert the head watchman and arrange for the body to be moved to a more . . . appropriate place until a mortuary wagon can be summoned,” came the reply.

“I’ll stay with you, sir—” began the other Royal Society member.

“That’s not necessary. I’m no stranger to death.

” Hosack sat back on his haunches. “I ‘d rather you go along with your colleague and inform the rest of the American delegation of the unfortunate incident—discreetly, of course, as I’ve no desire to ruin the evening for the other guests—and help them organize their carriages for the trip back to Town. I don’t imagine Mr. Becton’s friends will be in any mood to make merry tonight. ”

“Very good, sir,” they responded, and quietly withdrew, taking the spooked gardener with them.

“Damn, damn, damn.” Smacking a fist to his palm, Hosack added a more colorful oath. Becton had hinted that his presentation at the symposium would reveal a momentous discovery—one that might indeed be called a miracle, for all the lives it would save.

And now?

Hosack sighed and shifted his gaze . . .

A puddle of liquid gleamed in the flickering light of the lantern hung on a nearby stanchion. Strangely enough, the surrounding flagstones were dry as dust. He stared for a moment longer before inching forward and leaning down for a closer look.

The whiff of grape-scented alcohol tickled his nostrils. Wetting a finger in the spreading rivulet, he touched it to the tip of his tongue.

Champagne.

Frowning, Hosack looked around for broken bits of glass. But where is the crystal coupe?

A conundrum—and one that seemed to defy logic. As a rational man of science, that bothered him. Ignoring the chill seeping through his trousers, he remained on his knees, crawling around to search beneath the display cases.

Perhaps the gardener had picked up the coupe—though it was highly unlikely that the delicate glass could have survived the fall. Or perhaps . . .

His thoughts were interrupted as a harsh, burning sensation suddenly had his mouth on fire.

Stirring a wash of saliva, he puckered and spit. Holy hell—what the devil is going on?

Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, he quickly blotted up the rest of the wine with his handkerchief and stuffed it in his pocket before crawling back to his friend’s corpse and studying the half-open lips, now frozen in death.

A bad heart be damned.

Unless he was much mistaken, the tiny telltale flecks of white powder indicated it wasn’t the Grim Reaper’s blade that had cut his friend’s life short.

The mortal blow had come from some earthly hand.