Ghost Image (16 page)

“I'm not a botanist or even a very good gardener, if that's what you're asking.” Her lips curved in a small smile for the first time since we'd met. “But I have a personal connection. He was a dear friend. And to answer your question, I thought you might be able to tell me about the letter, and since you know about it, the book as well.”

“I see. Do go on.”

“Ryan Velis was interested in the Fairbairn letter because it seemed to substantiate a theory at Monticello that Thomas Jefferson kept a seed press, either a portable one or an actual cabinet, in the White House during his presidency. Perhaps the seeds he and George Washington collected for an American botanic garden, plus new specimens Jefferson added from the Lewis and Clark expedition.”

Zara shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. “Let's walk, shall we?”

Walking suited me, too. Zara's initial suspicion that I was Kevin's stalker, her request that our meeting be kept a secret, and her concern that one of her colleagues had seen me arrive was making me jumpy. I nearly looked over my shoulder to see if Will Tennant was watching us with his peculiar stare through the gift shop window.

“So are you here because you believe I can help you find these seeds, or that I might know where they are?” She gave me a smile like we were a pair of conspirators.

I didn't take the bait. “It still hasn't been established that they even existed.”

“Kevin believed they did.”

I stopped walking. “He told you?”

“He did.” She gave me a significant look. “And that, my dear,
is the extent of my knowledge of the whereabouts of those seeds. A week after he left here, he was dead.”

“A week after—? I thought Kevin came to London in February to give a talk at Kew Gardens.”

“That's right, he did,” she said. “And whilst he was here, he spent a morning on Portobello Road pottering around the book dealer stalls. That's when he found the copy of
Adam in Eden
at the bottom of a box with a jumble of books on English gardens. He crowed about what a lucky find it was, even though, at the time, he thought none of it was worth much.”

We were standing in front of the statue of Hans Sloane, who appeared to be smiling down on us with sightless benevolence. The pockmarked statue was covered with moss that looked like dark green trim on his long flowing robe, and Sloane's carved face was so weathered that his eyes had worn away and it looked as if he were wearing large goggles.

“At the time?” I said. “Something changed his mind?”

“It did,” she said. “But before I go on, where is the book right now? I do hope it's someplace safe.”

Zara Remington was the only person who knew the entire history of the book, and Kevin had trusted her. “It's at Asquith's in Washington. Bram Asquith is a good friend of a friend of mine. He's appraising it as a favor.”

“Well, Bram will certainly know in a tick about the provenance of that book. I hope he doesn't talk.”

“He's not going to. However, there might be some question about who owns it now that Kevin is dead.”

Zara put a hand to her forehead as though she were massaging a migraine. “Good Lord. Who are our options?”

I almost smiled at her use of “our.”

“The Franciscans and an American billionaire named Edward Jaine. He was Kevin's benefactor.”

“I didn't know Kevin was involved with him,” she said with a faint note of distaste in her voice. “There have been rumors in
the British press recently that Mr. Jaine has some rather unsavory business dealings.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't recall exactly, but I believe it had to do with computers that were being shipped to Third World countries. Perhaps they were substandard, I'm not sure. You can probably find the story on the Internet.”

“I'll look. But you were going to explain about Kevin's trip here the week before he died.”

Zara tucked a wisp of hair that had come down from her bun back into place. “It had to do with the book. He brought it back to England because someone wanted to take a look at it. A collector. That's when he found out how extraordinarily valuable it was.” She lowered her voice. “Did Bram say anything to you?”

We continued walking down a broad gravel path toward a gate set into the brick wall at the back of the garden. Except for the occasional chuntering of traffic along the Chelsea Embankment on the other side of the gate and the twittering of invisible birds in the trees above us, Zara and I were alone in what seemed like our own secret garden in this quiet tucked-away corner of London. Almost four centuries ago, apprentices of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries had tilled this same soil, growing medicinal plants and studying their uses. Like Monticello, here the present seemed to recede to a gentler past that moved at the slow, unhurried rhythm of nature.

Only our conversation, in hushed tones, felt out of place.

“Yes,” I said, “but this was before Bram had actually seen the book. He said he believed it was the personal copy of Sir Isaac Newton and, because of the original botanic prints, possibly William Coles's own copy that was meant to be a second edition.”

She smiled. “Spot-on. Bram knows what he's talking about.”

“So who did Kevin consult with in London?”

“I have no idea. Apparently the individual was interested in
purchasing the book and wished to remain anonymous. Obviously the fewer people who knew Kevin had found pure gold in a box of dross, the better.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“Shall we finish our stroll and go back to the gift shop? I believe I've answered all your questions.”

“You have, thank you. You've been very generous with your time.”

Zara Remington had answered my questions, but she'd just added a new one. Who was the individual who wanted to buy Kevin's book? It wouldn't have been Edward Jaine.

And here was another question: Did that give someone else a motive for murder?

12

“O
ne final thing before we go inside,” Zara said. “I nearly forgot that I promised to tell you about
Hyssopus officinalis.
Let's walk back over to the Garden of World Medicine.”

“Was that the pressed plant inside Kevin's book?” I asked.

She smiled. “I see you found it.”

“Yes, but found what, exactly?”

We walked across the spongy grass, back to the Western European medicinal plants. “As you know, John Fairbairn told Francis Pembroke that the plant he believed was
Hyssopus
, or hyssop, as we call it today, was wrongly labeled. In actual fact, it was another kind of hyssop.”

“Water hyssop,” I said.

“That's right.” Zara looked surprised. “You've done some research. But water hyssop goes by the Latin genus name of
Bacopa
and it's best known for its memory-enhancing properties. It grows in wet places—on pond edges, muddy shores, lakes, that sort of environment. And it favors warm or tropical climates. It's not the same thing at all as
Hyssopus officinalis
.
The plant that was pressed between the pages of Kevin's copy of
Adam in Eden
came from the genus
Bacopa.
”

“So Pembroke was right?”

“It would seem he was, but Kevin did some checking and learned that particular species is extinct. In fact he half jokingly named it
Bacopa lewisia extinctus.
”

“I get
extinctus
,” I said. “And
lewisia
for Meriwether Lewis?”

Zara nodded. “If you discover a plant, then you are allowed to name it. Karl Linnaeus, who visited this garden when Philip Miller was the curator, supposedly named plants for his friends and weeds for his enemies.”

I smiled. “How did Kevin learn that the plant was extinct? Did he bring it here to you?”

“Not to me,” she said. “I'm sure Alastair helped him. I know Kevin made a trip to Wakehurst.”

“Who is Alastair and what is Wakehurst?”

“Wakehurst Place is a rather splendid, rather old estate in Sussex, about forty miles south of London. The Millennium Seed Bank, which is part of the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, is located on the property. It's an immense seed storage facility staffed by an international group of scientists. Their goal is to collect seeds from as many plants as possible throughout the world, to preserve them for future generations before the plants become extinct.” Her mouth twisted in a smile. “To avoid more
lewisias
.”

“And Alastair?”

“Dr. Alastair Innes. Brilliant man. He's in charge of the department of seed conservation. He would have been able to look at the DNA of the plant specimen Kevin brought him.”

“I'd like to talk to him,” I said. “I don't suppose you'd be willing to share his phone number or an e-mail address?”

“I'll give you his details when we go inside.”

The wind had picked up and another seagull screeched overhead. By now it was probably well past five o'clock. At home
it would be dusk. Here it was still bright, although the sunless milky light had thickened as though a gauze curtain had fallen over the garden.

Zara pointed to a tidy row of beds designated for pharmaceutical plants. “The plants you see here are used in modern medicines. The beds are arranged according to what discipline of medicine the drug derived from that plant is used for.”

I read the signs out loud as we kept walking. “Oncology, neurology, psychiatry, ophthalmology.” I turned to her. “Are all these plants really used for such serious conditions and illnesses . . . arthritis, eczema, Parkinson's disease?”

“They are. Be glad you weren't alive in William Coles's day, when the common belief was something known as the doctrine of signatures. If a plant physically resembled a particular organ of the body, it was used to treat ailments related to that part of the body.”

“A heart-shaped plant treated heart problems?”

She nodded. “In medieval times, it did. Even today, a lot of people still believe plants are mostly used in homeopathic and alternative medicine, but you'd be surprised how many drugs used in modern-day medicine are plant based.” She paused and said in a thoughtful voice, “Though I did think Kevin was rather too hopeful about the potential of
Bacopa lewisia
.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Fairbairn letter mentioned that the misidentified plant was going to be included in the national botanic garden,” she said. “Kevin believed, or at least hoped, it was amongst the seeds in Thomas Jefferson's White House collection.”

We had stopped in front of a bed with plants dedicated to cardiology. Half a dozen small pink-and-white signs with a skull and crossbones and the words
POISONOUS PLANTS
were stuck in the ground in a little cluster. The markers looked like they had probably once been bright red, screaming
danger, warning!
before they were bleached by the sun, but now they almost looked decorative.

I knelt and read the names on the markers. “
Digitalis lanata. Atropa belladonna . . .
My God, these
are
highly poisonous.”

“More commonly known as foxglove and deadly nightshade,” Zara said. “You're quite right, so do be careful. We're deadly serious—excuse the pun—with the signs and the warning on the maps. Put your hand or a finger in your mouth after touching one of these plants and it really could be the last thing you ever do.”

I shuddered. “I wonder if they grow poisonous plants in the garden of the Franciscan Monastery.”

Zara looked startled, but then she said, “If you're asking whether someone could have poisoned Kevin with a plant from that garden, the answer is yes. It wouldn't be hard to do. More plants than you might think are highly toxic—the leaves, the berries, the flowers.”

I stood up and we walked back to the gift shop. “I don't understand what could have happened to those seeds,” I said. “If Dolley Madison knew they were so important to Thomas Jefferson, why didn't she get them directly to him? Montpelier, their plantation, was just down the road from Monticello. They were great friends.”

“Believe it or not, perhaps I can answer that question for you,” Zara said. “I wrote my thesis at uni on the subject of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century seed exchange between Britain and America.”

She held the door and I walked inside. The room was warm after the raw, damp chill of the garden, fragrant with a pleasant potpourri of floral scents.

“Your botanic garden was originally conceived to be a showcase for American plants, all these exotic new varieties that we didn't have here in Europe,” she said. “Unfortunately, the money and, it seemed, the political will were never there, and by the late 1820s, the current president, John Quincy Adams, turned the idea on its head. His treasury secretary wrote every foreign dignitary in
America asking for plants from their countries, plus sent a letter to all naval officers, instructing them to bring home seeds from their foreign travels. And then, of course, there was your famous expedition to the South Seas a decade later that sent home more than fifty thousand plant specimens.” She paused and shrugged. “I suspect the idea of a garden that was strictly American became too provincial, too quaint, for the world power the United States was becoming. George Washington was dead and Thomas Jefferson, as you may recall, never returned to Washington after he left the presidency. He considered being president of the United States one of his lesser accomplishments, so insignificant it wasn't even part of the inscription on his tomb.”

“So no one cared anymore,” I said.

“Possibly.”

“But the seeds went somewhere for safekeeping,” I said. “Or Kevin believed they did.”

“And that is the riddle, isn't it? Or perhaps the treasure hunt.” Zara pulled out her phone and did some scrolling as she walked over to the cash register counter.

The treasure hunt. Kevin had used those same words to describe his search for the seeds that last day at the Tidal Basin. Was that what I'd gotten involved in, along with someone else? A race to find hidden treasure?

Zara scribbled something on a piece of paper and held it out to me. “Please don't tell Alastair you got this from me. Better he thinks Kevin gave it to you. I suggest e-mailing him first rather than ringing him. Don't worry, he'll be in touch.”

“Thank you.” I tucked the paper in my camera bag.

She walked me to the door. “I presume, since you knew Kevin so well, you heard about his sister?”

She saw my blank expression. “Ah, apparently not. Well, I believe it's relevant to what brought Kevin here, his sense of urgency.”

“Please go on.”

“Both his parents died of Alzheimer's disease,” she said. “His
sister, who was two years younger than Kevin, was recently diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's.” My shock must have shown, because she added, “I think that made him even more desperate to find those seeds, because of the apparent potent memory-enhancing property the
lewisia
plant supposedly possessed. Obviously it's an utter long shot as to whether any seeds could be germinated, but when one is desperate and a beloved sister is going to slowly lose her memory, one will do anything in one's power to prevent it, you know?”

I thought about Chappy. “Yes, I know.”

“Kevin was making some discreet inquiries amongst contacts in the pharmaceutical industry to find out about Alzheimer's drugs that were being developed, whether there was any possibility of his sister taking part in tests for the most hopeful possibilities.” She held the front door for me. “He even asked about water hyssop. Good luck, Sophie. I hope you find what you're looking for. And do be careful. Someone was here recently talking to Will, another American, who seemed especially interested in
Hyssopus officinalis
, as you were. I didn't think anything of it until just now.”

I froze. “An American? Was it a man or woman?”

“A man.”

“Could you describe him?”

“I'm afraid not. I was in my office and happened to see the two of them together out the window, but their backs were to me. And the gentleman left through the gate on Swan Walk. I asked Will why he let him in when we were closed, and he said the chap was particularly keen to see the garden as he was only in town for a day or two. He managed to talk Will into giving him a tour since he'd come all the way from America.”

“Good Lord,” I said. “I wonder if his visit had anything to do with Kevin's book. Though who else could have known about the plant?”

“I thought no one knew about it except Kevin, Alastair, and me,” she said. “It is possible his visit was just a coincidence.”

I said goodbye and walked down Royal Hospital Road toward Sloane Square. But I didn't think the visit of another American to the Chelsea Physic Garden asking about the same plant I did was a coincidence.

• • •

Sloane Square was nearly deserted at six o'clock on a chilly Sunday evening. I walked the last half block from Lower Sloane Street to the Underground station entrance thinking about everything Zara Remington had said.

“Hello? Sophie?”

Will Tennant waved an arm over his head, signaling me from the fountain in the square across the street. A double-decker bus pulled away from a stop and cut off my view of him. When it passed, he ran across the street and joined me.

“I thought I recognized you,” he said in a cheerful voice. “Have you just come from the garden?”

“I have. Were you waiting for me?”

He gave an odd laugh. “No, I've just been round to tea with a friend down the King's Road and happened to spot you. How was your visit with Zara?”

“Fine,” I said. “Apparently I'm not the only American to drop by the garden before it opens in the spring. Zara mentioned you were talking to one of my countrymen the other day.”

He blinked. “Did she, now?”

“Could you describe him?”

“May I ask why?”

I patted my camera bag. “I'm a photographer on assignment for a magazine. It's freelance. But I've got this competitor, you see. I think we're working on the same story. I was just wondering if it was the guy.”

“What does he look like?” He gave me his off-kilter look. “Maybe I can tell you if it seems like the same chap.”

“Uh . . . pretty average. In his forties, dark hair, blue eyes. A
little overweight.” If I made up a description, maybe he would contradict me and tell me what I wanted to know.

He shook his head. “You're in luck. This fellow was old, white hair, glasses. A bit stooped. Visiting from . . . what's that state? Missouri, I think he said. From Lincoln.”

“Lincoln is in Nebraska.”

Will looked surprised, but he grinned. “I guess I got it wrong. Are you walking to the Underground?”

“Yes.”

“Me, too.”

My pass had expired, so he waited while I bought a new one. “If you're going to be here for a while, you ought to get an Oyster Card,” he said. “You can keep topping it off and it usually works out to be a cheaper deal if you pay by the week. You can use it on the buses, too.”

“I know. I used to live here.”

“Did you now?” At the bottom of the stairs he asked which way I was going.

“Victoria,” I said.

“I'm off to Notting Hill Gate. The opposite direction. Are you staying around Victoria?”

“No,” I said. “Mayfair. Here's my train. I'd better go. Goodbye, Will.”

The train wasn't crowded, and when I boarded, I looked out the window at the platform. Will Tennant was gone. A moment later the bells chimed and we were advised to stand clear of the closing doors. The train left the station and I knew he'd seen right through my con and had lied to me.