The Poisoned Island (37 page)

They walk up close to the tree, and Sir Joseph leans forward and points.

“Look, Brown.”

Brown can see what he means immediately. There are copious female flowers hanging down from the trees, at varying rates of growth. The biggest are drying out and turning into something like an unfertilized hemp flower top, but bigger, more substantial, almost like a fruit in itself. There are still no male flowers. Really, the classification of the tree remains a complete mystery.

As does the ability of children to get in here, thinks Brown, irritably, as the sound of another girl giggles up from some corner of the hothouse. He notices Sir Joseph is gently smiling at him.

“You seem exercised by something, Brown.”

“Oh, nothing, sir. There always seem to be
children
in here. I must speak to the gardeners about it.”

“I’m by no means sure the gardeners can do much about these children. You see the flowers, of course?”

“Of course.”

“I have confirmed your findings. There are no male organs of reproduction anywhere on this tree.”

“So, this must be an entirely new species, one which has male and female plants. But this blinds us to the more problematic conundrum.”

“The tree’s precipitous growth.”

“Indeed, yes. How can a living thing consume enough material to grow so quickly?”

“It seems to be having a detrimental effect on the other plants, as well.”

“Quite so. Might this tree in fact be parasitic? Parasitic on the entire flora?”

Brown’s question hangs in the air, almost obscene in its size and implications. The two men watch the tree for a while, like two Spanish explorers standing upon a peak in Darien, gazing on an undiscovered sea, only the distant giggling of a girl to disturb their reverie.

*  *  *

Horton arrives at Kew in the late afternoon. He is already in a state of mild wonder at the beauty of the place in which he finds himself—indeed, he has been in some astonishment ever since they passed through Mortlake. He has seen a great many places in the world, from Newfoundland to Batavia, but nothing with half as much precise and ordered splendor as this corner of England. The river, which he is used to thinking of as a muddy, noisy, rushing stream, a highway for shipping and a breeding ground for the ugliest of crimes, has here turned into a polite, green, whispering thing, watched over by herons and caressed by willows, hemmed in by terraces and artful temples. The air is full of the material of
plants—tickling pollen which shines in the late afternoon sunlight, picking out the sunbeams which fall onto smart little houses, brand-new villas, and grand mansions alike. A rich man’s playground, no doubt, but a playground decked out with the most exquisite taste in the world.

The feeling lasts as he climbs down from the carriage at Kew Green. His name has been left by Brown with the soldiers at the gate, and he is accompanied into the Gardens by a red-coated soldier, who glares at him.

“Wot are you, then?” the soldier asks as they walk through the grounds.

“A waterman-constable. Of the Thames River Police Office.”

“River Police? What you supposed to catch? Fish?”

The soldier laughs at that, his harsh Essex accent incongruous against his traditional uniform and the elegant balance of the surroundings—although here that balance, so stark outside the Kew walls, is thrown awry by the odd buildings, like the enormous Pagoda that rises above the trees to the south and there, upstream and on the edge of the park, the crazy willfulness of the Castellated Palace.

The soldier leaves Horton outside an ugly shed which looks like it has been freshly constructed. Abigail should be here, he thinks. He imagines her darting around the gardens, counting leaves and pistils and stamens and telling him which class was what and what species was that, and his eyes would droop and she’d laugh at him, saying he took no interest in anything that wasn’t a man who’d done something terrible.

He goes into the shed, and spends an hour or two talking to the gardeners within, who are coming to the end of the work of categorizing and transplanting the wonders from Otaheite. They use the word
wonders
a lot for things
which, to Horton, look like the kind of plants you might just as easily have found walking the meadows up towards Highgate. He can see why Hopkins had not recommended he talk to them immediately. They are lost in their own botanical worlds, and claim to have seen nothing, spoken to no one, and heard little about anything other than plants, plants, plants. When he tells them the names of the dead men, they look at him blankly. When he asks them about Critchley, they don’t know the name, although a couple of them recognize the physical description of the blond Viking. They are all effusive in their praise of Captain Hopkins, who had willingly turned his ship into a veritable floating plant house, his carpenter able to find stowing places for every new discovery the gardeners brought on board. Horton remembers that Jeremiah Critchley was the carpenter’s mate, but even when this is pointed out to the gardeners they don’t recall the name.

So, it turns out to be a frustrating trip, and evening is now falling. He leaves the shed, and wanders back towards the gate, in front of the Orangery to his left, and spies a great hothouse over to the right in which he can just pick out a shivering greenness. A carriage arrives at the gate; despite being plain and undecorated, it manages to look enormously opulent. He is about to walk over to see who is arriving, when he hears that unwelcome Essex voice again.

“If you’ve finished with the gardeners, Mr. River Police, I’ve got orders to escort you back to Kew Green and get you a carriage.”

The soldier must have been waiting and watching all this time. A careful man is Mr. Brown, thinks Horton, and saying nothing he turns and walks back to the gate, the soldier beside him smirking annoyingly.

*  *  *

Sir Joseph and Brown are waiting as the plain but expensive carriage pulls up near the Orangery. Banks sits in his wheelchair with Brown behind him, and the librarian can see once again the clear marks of enormous excitement and stress in the shoulders and hands of the President. But they wait patiently as the doors to the carriage are opened by two footmen to reveal an elegant fellow who looks like nothing less than a well-to-do artist. Brown recognizes him as Thomas Monro, physician to the Bridewell and Bethlem madhouses. Brown had heard tell that Monro had been asked to examine the King since the return of his illness the previous year.

Monro steps down and walks up to Banks, who greets him with a handshake. Monro nods at Brown, who is busy making connections and pondering on the insanity of what Banks has been planning.

Monro frowns at Banks, and gives a
get-on-with-it
nod. An impatient man, then, one well used to having his own way and being attended to by those around him.

“Come with me,” says Banks, and the librarian pushes the wheelchair towards the Stove.

Going through the door of the hothouse, they are once again assailed by a cacophony of scent. The tropics rise up to meet their jaded English noses. The wheelchair is wheeled between green walls of flora, the growing treasure chest of material plundered from a world which bows beneath the power of a British navy and British exploration.

In the middle of all this is the tree Banks had planted a few nights ago and which now quivers enormously and with a desperate energy, and Brown imagines for a moment that the
tree
bends
towards the old man in his wheelchair, like a giraffe bending down to view a dog.

Banks indicates to Monro.

“Here it is. Here is the leaf which I believe will cure His Majesty.”

And there it is, stark as day, the thing that has been creeping up on Brown all day long, the knowledge that Sir Joseph has always had his own agenda. He was manipulated into the experiment with the
bhang
. Perhaps they were all manipulated. Perhaps the voyage of the
Solander
was always about this one moment, when the doctor to a mad old king was offered a cure.

“The Regent suspects,” says Monro, his first utterance.

“No doubt,” says Banks. “But you are the King’s doctor.”

“The latest in a long line of doctors, most of whom have done their best to kill him. I only keep him alive. I strongly doubt this . . .
plant
will cause any significant change.”

“The plants of Otaheite are like no other plants in the world.”

“You are the expert, Sir Joseph. I am only an instrument.”

“Then good. Come with me. We will make a draft from the leaves of the tree, and I wager that we will see an improvement.”

Monro nods, and taking over from Brown, he wheels the old President away.

Harriott and Graham are sitting in a neat drawing room inside a neat house at the edge of the enormous Royal Dockyard at Deptford. They are waiting for Peter Heywood, post captain and hydrographer and, more to the current purpose, rehabilitated mutineer, who is currently at Deptford supervising the fitting-out of a new ship, HMS
Douglas
, of which he has the command. Despite Heywood’s trappings of military power, for Harriott they are still in the business of attending on a wicked miscreant. Why, wondered Harriott as they made their way downriver to Deptford, had Graham assisted the mutinous little monkey at all?

“Because his family asked me to,” Graham had replied.

“But that is no reason to aid a scoundrel,” said Harriott.

“It is every reason in the world, my dear Harriott.”

“Are we to believe such men, just because they claim their innocence?”

“Of course not. But we must agree that every man has
recourse to the truth of the matter, even in a court martial. Do you not accept that?”

A grumble from Harriott.

“So, if a man has recourse to the truth, and if the machinery of state is ranged against him, it seems right to my eyes that he be given the chance to defend himself. He must have access to legal counsel who will advise him. Such has been the way in our criminal courts for almost a century. And if counsel is advising him, that counsel must work tirelessly on the assumption that he
is
innocent. No other course is open to him.”

“Which rather suggests you never believed he was innocent.”

“It does no such thing. As it happens, I did believe his guilt was by no means clear, which is not to say he was innocent, but I do not live in a world of certainties, Harriott, and am quite comfortable with a little ambiguity. But what if he were innocent? What if he were wrongly accused, and had his career taken away from him and his life destroyed? Is it not better that a guilty man escape justice than an innocent man be ruined?”

“No, sir, I do not believe it is. That may be the difference between us. I am prepared to allow that my view is pigheaded, just as yours is dangerously lenient.”

“I thank you for that.”

“So, you defended him because you thought he
might
be innocent.”

“Just so. In addition, he has a charming sister.”

“And in any case, the court-martial found him guilty. It was left to the King to pardon him.”

“Indeed it was. As I said, Harriott, I am comfortable with a degree of ambiguity.”

A flurry on the stairs and in the hall suggests the imminent arrival of an excited boy, but when Peter Heywood bursts into the room it is an experienced naval officer who presents himself.

“Mr. Graham! Wonder of wonders, Mr. Graham here in Deptford! You are welcome, sir, most welcome, a delight to see you. And you, sir, I do not believe we . . .? Ah, Mr. Harriott, a pleasure to meet you, sir, a pleasure to see you both. Atkins, please, some sherry, and at the double. Please, gentlemen, please be seated and let me know your business here. My, what a wonder. What an extraordinary surprise!”

Peter Heywood is a man of forty years, but looks at least fifty. His hair is almost uniformly gray, and he is barely as tall as Harriott, five foot four or perhaps five. He is in full naval uniform, as if coming back from or preparing to go to an official function. He is thin, much thinner than most naval captains of Harriott’s acquaintance, who have a tendency to run to fat and as a consequence always look rather breathless and clammy. Heywood looks cool and considered, despite his excitement at the magistrates’ arrival. And it cannot be denied: he looks like Peter Nott. The younger man has a fatter face and darker skin and hair, but his eyes look out from Heywood’s face.

Heywood makes idle chitchat with Graham while the manservant fetches the sherry and pours each of them a glass, and then he raises his in a toast.

“To Mr. Aaron Graham, magistrate, sailor, and savior,” he says, smiling. “My gratitude to him remains as bright as it was twenty years ago. Your health, sir. And yours, Mr. Harriott.”

The two magistrates return the toast, and sip their sherry, which, Harriott notes, is very good indeed.

“So, Peter. Captain Heywood. You appear to have prospered,” says Graham, in his best twinkling fashion.

“Beyond all hope and expectation, Mr. Graham,” replies the captain. “Since you rescued me from infamy and despair, I have risen but I have also, I trust, served His Majesty well. I am about to take a new command, on a ship now being finished here.”