“And you concluded Fairburn had been poisoned.”
“Yes. I told Spellar as much. I also gave him to understand that the basis of the poison was the castor bean plant. But there were some unusual aspects to the case. The first is that whoever concocted the lethal brew must have been very learned in botanical and chemical matters.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he knew how to make an extremely refined, powerful and quick-acting version of the poison. Lord Fairburn was dead before he had time to become ill. That is extremely uncommon in the case of botanical poisons. The victim is usually stricken first with a number of obvious physical symptoms. I’m sure I need not go into detail.”
“Convulsions. Vomiting. Diarrhea.” He shrugged. “I believe we have already established that I prefer not to mince words.”
She blinked again in a way that he was coming to recognize as an indication that she had been caught off guard. It was a small sign, but a telling one.
“Indeed,” she said.
“You say that the speed with which the poison acted led you to believe that it was concocted by a scientist or chemist?” he said.
“Yes, I think so. As I’m sure you’re aware, there are any number of potentially poisonous substances available in the apothecary shops. One can buy arsenic and cyanide without any difficulty whatsoever. And who knows what is in some of those appalling patent medicines that are so popular? But the poison that was employed to kill Lord Fairburn was not one that could be purchased so easily. Nor would it have been simple to prepare.”
His talent quickened. “You are saying that it was produced in a laboratory, not in an apothecary’s back room.”
“I am saying more than that, Mr. Jones. I believe I know who concocted the poison that killed Lord Fairburn.”
He did not move, did not take his eyes off her. Interesting was not the half of it, he thought. Even fascinating failed to describe Lucinda Bromley.
“How do you know this, Miss Bromley?” he asked.
She took a deep breath. “In addition to the traces of the castor bean plant, I recognized another ingredient in the poison that killed Fairburn. It was derived from an extremely rare fern that once grew in my conservatory. I believe the poisoner called upon me last month in order to steal it.”
With that he suddenly comprehended the true nature of the case.
“Damnation,” he said very softly. “You did not inform Spellar about your visitor or the theft, did you?”
“No. I dared not tell him about the traces of the Ameliopteris amazonensis that I detected in the poison that Lord Fairburn drank. He would have been forced to come to the obvious conclusion.”
“That you were the one who brewed the poison,” Caleb said.
There was a disturbing tension in his aura. She had sensed it the moment he walked into the conservatory. In a weaker man such an imbalance of energies would have resulted in serious illness of a psychical nature. She suspected that Caleb Jones was unconsciously controlling the disharmony through the sheer power of his will. She doubted that he was even aware of the strange, unwholesome currents that pulsed around him.
The state of his psychical health was not her problem, she reminded herself, not unless it prevented him from conducting a thorough investigation. Her intuition told her that would not be the case. Determination and resolve emanated far more strongly in his aura than did the unnatural currents. Caleb Jones was a man who would finish whatever he set out to do, no matter the cost.
This meeting was the very last thing she had wanted but she had not been able to come up with any alternative. Her circumstances were dire and the problem was of a psychical nature. That meant she required an investigation firm that could deal with the paranormal. The only one she was aware of was the recently established Jones agency.
Unfortunately, becoming involved with the firm meant having to deal with a member of the Jones family, by all accounts an eccentric and dangerous lot. The Arcane Society was a notoriously secretive organization and the powerful members of the Jones clan—descendants of the founder—were always at its heart. Rumor had it they were very good at the business of protecting the Society’s—and their own—dark secrets.
She had guessed that Caleb Jones would be frighteningly adept at the business of getting at the truth. It was said that everyone in the family possessed a strong talent of one kind or another, and she had expected Caleb to demonstrate an expertise for his unusual profession.
What had stunned her was the frisson of intense curiosity, indeed outright fascination, that she had experienced when she first sensed his presence in the conservatory. The thrilling little shivers of awareness that were sparkling through her now could only be described as alarmingly sensual in nature. The sensations were disturbing and disorienting; the sort of emotions that might have been forgiven in an innocent young lady of eighteen but which were quite inappropriate in a woman of twenty-seven years; a woman of the world.
For heaven’s sake, I’m officially on the shelf; a spinster. And he’s a Jones. What on earth is happening to me?
There was a compelling strength in Caleb Jones but also a dour, melancholic air. It was as if he had examined life with the full powers of his intelligence and talents and concluded that it had little in the way of joy to offer him but he would nevertheless persevere. Even if she had not known that he was a direct descendant of Sylvester Jones, the founder of the Society, she would have recognized Caleb as a powerful talent.
Something else burned hot in him, as well, an all-consuming intensity, a single-mindedness of purpose, which she knew would be a two-edged sword. In her experience there was often only a very fine line between the ability to concentrate intelligently on an objective and an unhealthy obsession. She suspected that Caleb had crossed that line more than once. That knowledge taken together with the disharmony in his aura was alarming but she had little choice now. Jones might very well be all that stood between her and a charge of murder.
She fastened the invisible corset of her composure snugly around herself and prepared to move forward with her plan.
“Now you understand why I asked you to come here today, Mr. Jones,” she said. “I wish you to investigate the theft of my fern. I am convinced that when you discover the thief, you will also discover that he is the one who concocted the poison that killed Lord Fairburn. You will find him and hand him over to Inspector Spellar, along with the appropriate proof of his guilt.”
Caleb’s brows rose. “All without dragging your name into the matter, I assume?”
She frowned. “Well, yes, of course. That is the whole point of hiring someone like you to make private inquiries, is it not? One expects a guarantee of confidentiality in this sort of thing.”
“So they tell me.”
“Mr. Jones.”
“I’m still somewhat new at this business of making private inquiries but I have discovered that clients seem to think that there are a number of rules that I must follow. I find that assumption to be tedious and irritating.”
She was appalled. “Mr. Jones, if you came here today under false pretenses, be assured that I will go straight to the new Master of the Society and register a complaint about your services in the strongest possible terms.”
“Probably best not to bother Gabe at the moment. He’s got his hands full trying to reorganize the Governing Council. Seems to believe he can actually get rid of some of those doddering old fools who are still playing at alchemy. I’ve warned him that a few of them might become dangerous if they find out that they are to be replaced but he insists that an element of democracy is what is needed to put the Society on the path for the new century.”
“Mr. Jones,” she said sternly. “I am trying to discuss my case with you.”
“Right. Where were we? Ah, yes, confidentiality.”
“Well, then? Are you prepared to guarantee that you will keep everything pertaining to this matter confidential?”
“Miss Bromley, this may come as a surprise to you, but I keep most things confidential. I am not a sociable man. Just ask anyone who knows me. I despise drawing room conversation and, while I always listen to gossip because I find it is often a source of useful information, I never engage in it.”
She had no trouble believing that. “I see.”
“You have my promise that I will keep your secrets.”
Relief washed through her. “Thank you.”
“With one exception.”
She froze. “What is that?”
“While the services of my firm are available to all members of the Arcane Society, it is understood that my first responsibility is to protect the secrets of the organization.”
She brushed that aside impatiently. “Yes, yes, that was made clear by Gabriel Jones when he announced the establishment of your firm. I assure you, my problem has nothing to do with Arcane Society secrets. This is a simple matter of plant theft and murder. My only goal is to stay out of prison.”
Icy amusement flickered in his eyes. “A sensible ambition.” He removed a small notebook and a pencil from an inside pocket of his elegantly cut coat. “Tell me about the theft.”
She put aside her cup and saucer. “A month ago a man named Dr. Knox called upon me. He claimed to have been referred by an old friend of my father’s. Like you, Mr. Jones, I do not go out into society. Nevertheless, I occasionally enjoy the company of others who are as interested in botany as I am.”
“Knox was, I take it, very keen on rare plants?”
“Yes. He requested a tour of my conservatory. Said he’d read all of my father’s books and papers. He was very enthusiastic and knowledgeable. I saw no reason to refuse.”
Caleb looked up from his notes. “Do you frequently provide such tours?”
“No, of course not. This isn’t Kew Gardens or the Carstairs Botanical Society.”
The old anger shafted through her. She managed, just barely, not to allow it to show in her expression but she could feel her jaw clenching slightly. She suspected that the very observant Mr. Jones noticed the small movement.
“I understand,” he said.
“In any event, following my father’s death and the death of my fiancé, there have been very few requests for tours, I assure you.”
She thought she glimpsed something that might have been sympathy in his expression but it vanished in a heartbeat. She must have been mistaken, she decided. It was unlikely that Caleb Jones would recognize such a delicate sensibility if he fell over it.
“Please continue with your account, Miss Bromley,” he said.
“Dr. Knox and I spent nearly two hours in the conservatory. Before long it became obvious that he was particularly interested in my medicinal plants and herbs.”
Caleb stopped writing again and gave her a sharp, searching look. “You grow medicinal plants?”
“They are my specialty, Mr. Jones.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Both of my parents were talented botanists but my mother’s chief area of interest was the study of the medicinal properties of plants and herbs. I inherited her fascination with the subject. After she died, I continued to accompany my father on his plant-hunting expeditions. The specimen that captured Dr. Knox’s attention was a very unique fern that I discovered in the course of our last journey to the Amazon. I called it Ameliopteris amazonensis after my mother. Her name was Amelia.”
“You discovered this fern?”
“Not exactly. The people of a small tribe who live in that part of the world deserve that credit. But after I returned from the expedition I could find no reference to it in any books or papers. This library, I assure you, is very extensive.”
Caleb examined the crammed shelves with a considering expression. “I can see that.”
“A healer in the tribe showed the fern to me and explained its properties. She called it by the name her people had given it, which translates roughly as Secret Eye.”
“How is the fern used?”
“Well, the tribe employs it in certain religious ceremonies. But I doubt very much that Dr. Knox is a religious man, let alone that he observes sacred rites that are practiced by only a small group of people who live in a very remote village in South America. No, Mr. Jones, he used my fern to somehow make the poison act more quickly and to mask the taste and smell.”
“Do you know what effect the fern has when it is used in the villagers’ ceremonies?” Caleb asked.
The question surprised her. Most people would have dismissed out of hand the beliefs of a people who lived in a far-off land.
“The tribe’s healer claimed that a tisane made from the fern could open what her people refer to as an individual’s secret eye. I’m certain the villagers believe that is what happens when one drinks the brew but that is the thing with religion, is it not? Belief is everything.”
“Do you have any notion of what the healer meant by opening the secret eye?”
His intense, unexpected interest in the properties of the fern itself, rather than the theft, was starting to concern her. Some of the rumors she had heard about Caleb Jones implied that he might be something other than merely eccentric.
It was too late to show him the door, she thought. She had already told him her secret. In any event it was not as if she could replace him. There were a great many people in London who claimed to possess psychical talents. Indeed, the paranormal was all the rage. But as every sensible person within the Arcane Society knew, the vast majority of such practitioners were frauds and charlatans. She desperately needed Caleb Jones’s talents.
“I do not pretend to be an expert on the healer’s religious beliefs,” she said carefully. “But according to her, secret eye was the term the villagers employed to refer to what you and I would call an individual’s dream state.”
A great and alarming stillness came over Caleb Jones.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, his voice chillingly soft. “Basil Hulsey.”
She gave him a disapproving glare. “More ungentlemanly language, Mr. Jones? Really, do you find it so astonishing that there are those outside England who have an understanding of the paranormal? It is not as though we are the only ones who possess a psychical side to our natures.”