Another drunken lurch as Becton felt himself sinking, sinking into darkness . . .
A thud echoed in the muffled crack of terra-cotta pots as his thrashing arm knocked several specimen plants to the stone floor.
“Rest in peace,” murmured his companion, crouching down beside the American explorer’s still-twitching body. “Your discovery will live on—I promise you that.” His voice was solemn, but betrayed not a ripple of remorse. “Though it won’t be you who reaps the rewards that will come with its fame.”
The gentleman waited for the final death throes to cease before shifting the crystal stems of the two glasses to one hand and beginning a methodical search of Becton’s waistcoat pockets.
“Eureka!”He smiled as he extracted a small brass key. “Thank you for making this easy.”
The display room was once against quiet as a crypt, the moist air undulating through the fanciful silhouettes of the plants as they settled back into a peaceful slumber. Rising, the gentleman smoothed the wrinkles from his trousers and disappeared into the gloom.
* * *
A bevy of footmen, resplendent in their royal livery, circulated through the crowd, discreetly ringing handbells to signal that the gathering in the conservatory’s reception room was coming to an end and the guests were to exit and make their way along the graveled walkway to the nearby Kew Palace, where a gala supper was soon to be served.
“The bells are quite unnecessary,” said one of the governors of the Royal Society, the illustrious scientific organization that had created the symposium. “Once the pop of champagne corks ceases, everyone will quickly understand that it’s time to move on.” He waggled his brows. “I understand that a very fine claret and German hock are to be served at the banquet. After all, man cannot live on the fruits of knowledge alone.”
The quip drew a round of chuckles from the small circle of scholars standing with him.
The governor gave a courtly wave toward the brass-framed glass double doors. “Shall we proceed, gentlemen?”
Other groups were also beginning to drift toward the exit, still engaged in lively scientific discussions with frequent terms in Latin echoing amid English, French, and German.
“Has anyone seen Mr. Becton?” asked the leader of the American delegation, after sweeping the room with a searching look.
“I believe I saw him wander off into the main conservatory, Dr. Hosack.” A vague wave accompanied the answer. “It looked like he might have been heading for the section that houses the South Seas specimens collected by Sir Joseph Banks.”
Hosack smiled. “Becton tends to lose all track of time when distracted by plant life. I had better go fetch him. He’s absentminded enough to forget all about supper.”
“We’ll come with you,” offered a pair of Royal Society members. “It’s easy to lose your way if you’re unfamiliar with the twists and turns of the walkways.”
The three of them set off, but no sooner had they passed through the first display when a shout of alarm shattered the stillness.
“A physician!” came the panicked cry. The thud of boots echoed like gunfire against the night-dark glass panes. “Help, help! A physician is needed!”
“Ye gods.” Hosack started to run, only to skid to a stop as he rounded a turn and came to a fork in the walkway.
“This way!” One of the Royal Society’s members grabbed his sleeve and pulled him to the left. The lamplight turned jumpy as they raced down the narrow slate-flagged path, setting off a dance of jagged shadows.
“Help, help!” A gardener burst free of the gloom, his face tight with fear. “A gentleman has collapsed near the South Seas specimens and I . . . I think he ain’t breathing—”
Hosack gave the fellow a hard shake. “Take me there—quickly, man, quickly.”
Drawing a steadying breath, the gardener nodded and turned around.
Palm fronds slapped at their coats as they shouldered through a cluster of tropical trees. And then the lush vegetation gave way to a display alcove filled with tiny treasures—
A body lay sprawled on the paving stones, half shadowed by the marble pedestals.
Dropping to his knees, Hosack touched a finger to his friend’s throat, but one look had already told him that he wouldn’t find a pulse.
“Damnation, he’s gone,” he muttered, feeling a sharp stab of both anger and regret at the unholy bad luck of the Grim Reaper’s choosing Becton at this, of all moments. “Why now?” he added in a whisper, just loud enough for his own ears.
A brusque cough. “My condolences, sir,” said one of the Royal Society’s members. “I heard mention that your friend had a bad heart.”
“He did suffer some troubles while in the wilds,” acknowledged Hosack. “Though of late, after proper medical care, he was much improved.”
“I’ll go alert the head watchman and arrange for the body to be moved to a more . . . appropriate place until a mortuary wagon can be summoned,” came the reply.
