The Poisoned Island (27 page)

And now Banks, like Brown had done, opens the jar with
the dried stuff in it. Even from the other side of the desk Brown can smell the extraordinary scent. Banks, for his part, widens his eyes and sits back in his chair, holding the jar away from his face before, after a few seconds, gradually bringing it back in towards him.

“My God. Extraordinary,” says Banks.

“It is.”

“I am reminded of nothing as much as the smell of the hemp plant,
Cannabis sativa
, which I understand is used in India in some forms of religious ritual.
Cannabis
, of course, has male and female plants with their own flowers. Unlike the
Artocarpus
.” Banks replaces the lid on the jar.

“Yes, I can see the resemblance,” says Brown.

“It had already occurred to you?” says Banks.

“In the matter of the flowers, yes. In the matter of odor, no, Sir Joseph. Just now, watching you open the jar, I was reminded of something, but your knowledge is wider than mine.”

“I wonder if it can be consumed.”

“That is perhaps something to be tested.”

“One would need to make it into a form of tea, I would imagine.”

“Perhaps so, Sir Joseph. Though it would be a dangerous effort.”

“But not one without precedent. I remember reading of Robert Hooke’s experiments with an Indian tea made from hemp;
bhang
, I believe they call it. He wrote about the experience. It is in the Royal Society library somewhere. There may even be a copy in here.”

Sir Joseph closes the jar and puts it back on the table.

“And the male flowers? There continue to be none?”

“None, Sir Joseph.”

“So this cannot be
Artocarpus incisa
.”

“No, Sir Joseph. The lack of male flowers, the prodigious growth . . .”

“Indeed. But how useful is a breadfruit tree with no fruit?”

“Not useful at all. But no doubt this is just a matter of finding the male plant and bringing them together. As I understand it, no male plant has been found. This seems particularly odd, given how thorough the botanists were in their collecting.”

“You spoke to the botanists about this?”

“I have had some conversations. I need to have more.”

“Perhaps that is something I should do directly. They may feel more obliged to be complete in their report.”

“Is there a suggestion that the botanists are somehow dishonest, Sir Joseph?”

“No, Brown, there is not. But this plant is important. We should do everything in our power to learn as much about it as we can.”

And with that, Sir Joseph leaves.

The day after the Royal Philosophers dinner Harriott has a heavy head. He has not drunk so much beer and wine in a single evening for a long while, and the morning is taken up with a good deal of staring out of the window from his ancient chair, trying to piece together his conversation with Banks and tease out the meanings. He does not relish such quiet introspection at the best of times, but with a headache and a stomach which is murmuring in protest at its mistreatment this is by no means the best of times and he is capable of little else.

Banks had seemed preoccupied during their conversation, certainly, but a man with as many wheels turning as Sir Joseph is bound to be preoccupied. He had been warm and welcoming towards Harriott, and there had been little of the tension Harriott might have expected. This morning he’d received word from Robert Brown that Horton might visit him at Soho Square to arrange interviews with the
Solander
gardeners
and inspect the documentation relating to the voyage to Otaheite. Sir Joseph has been as good as his word already, but however hard he pushes his addled old head Harriott cannot recall a single sentence from the President’s pronouncements the previous evening which might help Horton move the case forward.

There remains an unacceptable void at the heart of the case, a dead space, as if no one with any authority truly cared that three men are dead, two of them in very unusual circumstances. Harriott knows these were ordinary men, by definition unexceptional, and in that sense possibly disposable to men like Sir Joseph Banks. Perhaps he is being unfair, but it seems to John Harriott—who has always valued ordinary men, and rather thinks himself one of them—that he could end this case immediately, turn it into another file in the River Police archives, and it would attract no comment.

These worrying thoughts are interrupted by an unwelcome arrival: Edward Markland, one of the three magistrates from the Shadwell police office and, in Harriott’s eyes, the most intelligent but also the most devious. Despite the proximity of their offices, and the frequent uncomfortable overlaps between their investigations, the two men have never shared a dinner or indeed a conversation other than one pertaining to a particular case. They circle each other within London’s chaotic legal systems like impotent lions fighting over a barren pride.

Markland is shown in to Harriott’s room by the servant and extends his customary smooth greeting.

“My dear Harriott, a pleasure to see you. I take it you are in good health.”

“I am, Markland, thank you. Won’t you take a seat?”

“Thank you, I will. And Mrs. Harriott does well, I trust?”

“She does.”

“I have still never had the pleasure of her acquaintance.”

“Really, Markland? Well. Is this a social visit, or a business one?”

Markland marks Harriott’s impoliteness with a smiling pause and some business with his hands, which brush off invisible fibers from his silk breeches. He looks up with his routine smile and calmly delivers his bombshell.

“I came to tell you we have had reports of a particularly vicious set of deaths in Ratcliffe. Three dead, one strangled, two slashed throats. The circumstances bear some uncanny resemblances to the killings you are yourself investigating in Rotherhithe.”

He stops and waits for a Harriott explosion, but he does not know of Harriott’s thick head, which is only capable of a dull irritation this morning. Last night’s alcohol seems to have leached away any capacity John Harriott might have had for explosion.

“You are well informed as to Rotherhithe,” he says.

“It was in the newspapers this morning, Harriott. It is not a state secret.”

“You believe the same person or persons may be responsible for both slaughters?”

“I do rather think so. Two of the dead men were crewmen on the
Solander
.”

This second bombshell is accompanied by that same fixed smile. Markland looks like a boy watching a cat in a box into which he has just dropped a mouse.

“You are certain of this?”

“Of course. The woman who owns the boardinghouse where the incident took place told us as much. Now, you are investigating two separate incidents, one in Wapping, one in
Rotherhithe. The first should of course be the responsibility of
my
office, Harriott, and the second—well, the second is a moot point; you are investigating in any case. Now, I hear you have made little or no progress on either of your cases, which of course I do not believe. You have the most effective men here, as you are sure to state. That one clever fellow we had dealings with before. Naughton, was it?”

“Horton.”

“Ah yes, Horton. Well, I am here to suggest we cooperate on these incidents. I suggest that Horton investigates the murders in Ratcliffe, along with those already under investigation. We would take joint ownership of the, well, what should we call it? The
operation
, perhaps. We can combine our resources, Harriott.”

Hangover or no, Harriott sees immediately what Markland is up to. The fame of the
Solander
and its sponsors, and the infamy of the existing murders, mean that a successful investigation will bring enormous political capital. But there is no one in the Shadwell office with the detective capacities of Charles Horton. So he is to be co-opted. It is clever and, Harriott supposes, it is a kind of compliment to his River Police Office.

“Are the detailed circumstances of the Ratcliffe murders the same as those which preceded them?” asks Harriott. “Are you sure they are connected?”

“Oh, you can be assured there is every reason to think so. In addition, we have a witness who saw the killer.”

Harriott almost smiles at that, but is not so oppressed by last night’s excesses that he forgets himself. The Shadwell magistrates are always good at trawling for
witnesses
. Whenever they investigate a serious crime, they approach it the same way: ask if anyone saw anything. As a result, every woman
and man with a grudge against any other woman and man comes forward to assert that yes, they saw who did it, it was him or her or them who did it, arrest them now, they’ve had it coming to them for a long time. The Irish and Portuguese in particular are favorite targets for these witnesses. Every murder Shadwell investigates is accompanied with a sudden but temporary incarceration of large sections of both those communities.

That said, there is something unusually
certain
about Markland this morning. The fact that it is he who has come with this proposal, and not his fellows Story or Capper, says something. Markland is clever. He would only make this move if he thought there was personal gain in it for him. He cannot gain from Harriott making a mistake, for they both know that Harriott has no reputation to speak of in Whitehall and that the new Home Secretary is just waiting for the old man to die or retire before putting someone in the River Office more compliant and willing. Perhaps, Harriott thinks with a start, Markland himself.

The servant knocks on the door, firmly but politely, and Harriott tells him to come in, at which Markland looks momentarily put out before reattaching his unflappable face. The attendant whispers in Harriott’s ear.

“Constable Horton has returned, sir. You asked to be informed of his arrival.”

“Thank you, Upson. Tell him I will be done here in a few minutes.”

The attendant leaves and shuts the door, and Harriott turns back to his adversary.

“Your idea has merit, Markland. It may well be that the murders in Ratcliffe are by the same man, or they may be by someone different entirely. Either way it makes sense for
Horton to establish the truth of it and judge the bearing, or otherwise these killings might have on the existing cases at hand.”

“I am glad you see the sense of it as well.”

“I must speak to Horton and it may also be necessary to put more men on the case.”

“I can find men.”

Harriott is sure this is true. But he has seen the caliber of the men Markland employs.

“But Horton must lead the investigation.”

“Of course. Your faith in him is well-known and, it is said, well placed. He is discreet and effective.”

“He is, sir, he is.”

“Then I may leave it with you, Harriott?”

“You may, Markland.”

The Shadwell magistrate rises, and approaches Harriott’s desk, his hand out. Harriott struggles to his feet, ignoring Markland’s entreaties to remain seated, and they shake on the arrangement. Markland holds on to Harriott’s hand firmly as he speaks.

“We have never spoken of the Ratcliffe Highway investigation and its conclusion. It ended in some doubt. Perhaps one day we could discuss it over some dinner.”

Harriott smiles.

“Perhaps, Markland. Though I must warn you, there is very little I am permitted to tell you.”

Markland’s smile slips again at that, and Harriott’s grows wider.

“Well, Harriott. No doubt there is good reason for the secrecy. Good day to you.”

Markland opens the door, and on the other side of it Harriott sees Horton, who nods at Markland curtly and almost
rudely. Markland, for his part, stops and takes his hand, gives it a shake, and says something which causes Horton to frown and stare at him, and then Markland has gone.

“Come in, Horton, come in,” says Harriott, sitting down again with a sigh of relief.

“Sir, Mr. Markland just congratulated me on joining his operation,” says Horton as he comes into the room. He looks confused and perhaps a little upset.

“Did he now? How very characteristic of him. Well, here’s the fact of it. More murders have come to light. In Ratcliffe, this time. According to Markland, the men killed were crewmen on the
Solander
. He’s suggesting we incorporate the Ratcliffe deaths into our own operation, with myself and Markland as co-authors, as it were. You’re to lead the investigation, of course. Some of Markland’s men may also join you.”

Horton begins to speak, but Harriott raises his hand in some irritation.

“I know, Horton, I know. You work better alone. But this is a political matter. You will have to rely on me to keep Markland and Shadwell at bay, but this Ratcliffe situation may well help us unlock things on a particularly sticky case.”

Horton now looks miserable. Harriott has little time for this.

“Pull yourself together, man. And go and look at these bodies.”