It was a silly wish, and I let the seedpod fall on the floor.
Her drumming fingers stopped suddenly. When her eyes shot to mine, they no longer looked cheerful. “Where did you get this flower?” she asked.
I swallowed a lump in my throat. “I found it on the street. I . . . thought it quite lovely and wanted to buy more.”
She thrust the flower back at me. “It’s called Plumeria selva. You won’t find this flower for sale in any shop, not even the most exotic stores. It wouldn’t last long enough out of water to import it, and it isn’t valuable enough to grow in a commercial greenhouse.” She spoke her next words very carefully. “Which is exactly what I told Scotland Yard, when they came around asking if we sold them.”
She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You’ve read the newspapers, haven’t you? That flower is the calling card of the Wolf of Whitechapel. If you found one in the street, it might be important to their investigation. You must turn it in to the police.”
I stowed the flower back in my book. “Of course,” I lied. “I’ll head there straightaway.” I slid the journal into my bag, but hesitated. “Just out of curiosity, if the murderer didn’t purchase them from any shops in London, where do you think they came from?”
Mrs. Narayan picked up her broom again, fingers drumming on the handle, reluctant to dwell on such grisly topics. “He must grow them himself, though I have no idea why. Perhaps he lives outside of the city with enough space for a hothouse or a winter garden. It would have to be someplace warm and humid, and even then he would have to be a master gardener to grow tropical flowers in England.”
Edward certainly had no private hothouse, nor was he any type of gardener. Somewhere hot and humid, I thought, mind turning back to the island. It struck me then—the one place that always made me feel as though I was back on that sun-drenched slip of land.
The Royal Botanical greenhouse.
“Well.” I gave her an unsteady nod. “I supposed I’d best be off to Scotland Yard.”
I hurried from the store with my heart clanging as loud as the bell.
I rushed back to the professor’s, heart thumping at what I’d learned. The morning sky was clouding over with a threatening storm, and shoppers hurried past, anxious to be out of the weather and tucked near a warm fire with their loved ones, singing “Silent Night” and “We Three Kings.”
When I arrived, I found Montgomery gone but Balthazar home, making licorice tea for Elizabeth, who sat in the library with an open book and those reading glasses that made her look so like her uncle. I stood in the doorway and observed her; she didn’t turn a single page, just stared at the professor’s old decanter.
“A man came by today,” she said, surprising me, somehow sensing that I was there. “A historian by the name of Isambard Lessing.”
I came in and sat on the brocade sofa opposite her. “Was he after your family’s journals again?” I asked.
Her head cocked as she regarded me strangely. “Journals?”
“He came to visit the professor several weeks ago, asking about the heirlooms and things.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Is that what the professor told you? No, my dear, that’s not what Lessing was after at all. He was asking about you. I told him nothing, of course. Any interest an old man like him would have in a young girl can’t be good.”
I swallowed, uncertain what to make of this information. “What did he ask, exactly?”
“He wished to speak to you. Some nonsense about a trust the college had established in your father’s name . . . not a word of it true, I’m sure. I can smell a liar. I don’t even think history is his true profession.” Her forehead wrinkled in worry. “You must be careful, Juliet.”
The professor had lied to me, then. Lessing had come asking questions about me—on King’s Club’s orders, no doubt—and the professor had argued with him and then made up some story about heirlooms so I wouldn’t worry. One more thing the professor had done to improve my life, perhaps even save it, that I’d never be able to thank him for.
“Elizabeth—” I started, wanting to offer my condolences, but she cut me off.
“The funeral will be Thursday at Saint Paul’s. That’s where his grave plot is. He was well loved in this city; it’ll be a grand affair.” She wiped a thin hand over her face. “I wish I didn’t have to attend. I know that sounds terrible, but all those people, all offering their condolences when they hardly knew him. . . I don’t know how I’ll get through it.”
From the corner of my eye I saw ghosts of movement in the doorway, and looked up to find Montgomery returned from his errand. His face was deeply lined.
I gave Elizabeth’s hand a good squeeze, and then kissed her on the cheek just as tenderly as she’d kissed me the night before. “You won’t be alone. I’ll be with you.”
I met Montgomery in the hallway, where he motioned for me to follow him into my bedroom and close the door.
“What did you discover?” I asked.
The heavy set to his features told me whatever he’d found wasn’t good. He glanced toward the door and said, “Crates.”
“Crates?”
“Railroad shipping crates. You recall that we overheard the King’s Men mention Rochefort, the French ambassador, at the masquerade? I followed his carriage to Southhampton train station, where he met with Radcliffe and three station masters about constructing several dozen crates reinforced with steel beams. For automobile parts, they said, on a shipment to the French Ministry of Defense that Rochefort was negotiating for one week after New Year’s Day.”