At the old worktable across from the door, Saffron slipped on thick pair of leather gloves and tied on an apron. She didn’t require her short, mud-caked boots, lined up next to the others.
A wizened man stumped toward her through the greenery. His steel-gray hair was scraped over his ruddy forehead, his clothes worn and smudged with dirt beneath his leather apron. “Everleigh,” Mr. Winters said by way of greeting.
“Hello, sir. How is the ziziphus?” Saffron asked, noting a few jagged cuts crisscrossing his perpetually dirty hands.
“Just has more thorns by the day. Don’t know why they care about the ruddy thing! Waste of space and fertilizer if yer ask me,” he muttered.
Saffron looked fondly at the old man. Mr. Winters was a groundskeeper turned greenhouse minder in his old age. He expertly cared for every plant that could be reasonably found in Europe, but took audible offense to caring for the exotic plants that filled in the greenhouses. Privately, Saffron thought he wouldn’t mind them so much if he would wear gloves. Despite the thriving biology department, which encompassed botany and a handful of other disciplines, the greenhouses were not a popular place, perhaps because of their curmudgeonly caretaker.
Saffron made her way through the other greenhouses. She observed a few new aerial roots descending like thick ropes from the largest philodendron. One of the larger cacti had a black spot on one arm, another seemed to be nearly ready to flower. Her wandering steps brought her to the back of the largely unoccupied greenhouse, the last in the row. The entire back wall was covered with vines spreading like a yellow stain. She stepped closer to examine the heart-shaped leaves, pointing down at the floor with sharp tips. At their widest point, the leaves of thexolotl vine were the size of her palm, though she was sure she’d read in Maxwell’s research that they grew to the size of a man’s entire hand in their natural habitat. Her stomach dropped as she examined one of the lower vines. Above one of the scaly brown nodes, a clean cut had sliced off a portion of the vine. It was recent, given how the pale flesh hadn’t yet scarred over.
Mr. Winters was still in the first greenhouse when Saffron returned her gloves and apron. He was elbow deep in a trough of dirt, grunting as he turned it over to prepare to transfer the tray of sprouts next to him.
“Have you seen Dr. Maxwell today, Mr. Winters?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I haven’t. Came in the other day, but he comes and goes every few days.” He tugged his arms out of the dirt and tenderly picked up a sprout.
“Did you …” she began, wondering how to phrase the question so as not to enrage the greenhouse keeper. “I saw that someone had taken cuttings from a few of the plants. The xolotl vine, of all things!”
Mr. Winters looked up, scowling. “No damned respect for the property of the university. And no damned respect for themselves! Everyone knows that infernal thing is a ticket to the afterlife.”
Saffron gave him a weak smile and departed. The sun had crossed to the western part of the sky, casting short shadows onto the pavement. Saffron walked swiftly back to the North Wing, suddenly anxious to see Dr. Maxwell. No matter how angry Maxwell was, there was no possibility of him being a poisoner, but the inspector didn’t know that.
Once Saffron reached the hall, she was shocked to find several uniformed men, who seemed to be duplicates of Sergeant Simpson, with boxes lined up in the hallway. Dr. Maxwell’s door was open, but Simpson was inside, not the professor. Twomore men stood at the professor’s desk, shoving documents into boxes.
“Excuse me,” Saffron said from the doorway. “What are you doing?”
Simpson’s mouth thinned slightly as he took her in. “Collecting evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Saffron asked, moving out of the way of one of the men carrying a large box. The other policeman moved to the bookcase, and she said, “Be careful with those!”
Simpson didn’t reply.
“Do you know where I can find Dr. Maxwell?” She opened her mouth to repeat her question, but the other policeman began tossing books off the shelf and into a box, and she darted over. “You can’t throw those—some of those are hand painted!” Huffing, she marched back to Simpson. “You can’t just take Dr. Maxwell’s materials, Sergeant. We have an expedition to prepare for! Where is Dr. Maxwell?”
Simpson didn’t look up from his notes, though his eyes were still and not moving over the words any longer. “He’s at the police station for questioning.”
Saffron sucked in a breath. “But why? Didn’t the inspector speak to him here earlier?”
“He’s under suspicion.” With a stony expression quite at odds with his boyish face, Simpson turned and walked into the hall. He ruined this air of authority by tripping over one of the boxes, sending his tall helmet crooked on his head.
“Wait!” Saffron hurried after him. “What do you mean he’s under suspicion?”
A handful of young men paused in their conversation to watch. Saffron’s face heated.
Simpson shoved his helmet back into place and told her firmly, “With regards to the poisoning of Mrs. Cynthia Henry. And the suspected attempted murder of Dr. Lawrence Henry.”
He signaled to the group of men, and they went off down the stairs, arms loaded with boxes. Saffron was left in the middle of the hall, sputtering as she searched for words. The eyes of the curious bystanders burned into her, and she retreated to the office, snatching the keys left hanging in the door before closing herself in. She sat heavily on the well-worn leather couch, staring at Dr. Maxwell’s desk.
The room was in a state of disarray not unfamiliar to her, but far emptier than before. Inspector Green must have come to the same conclusion she had—why else would the police have taken Dr. Maxwell’s things? Anyone on the staff of the North Wing might have suggested Dr. Maxwell and the infamous xolotl vine as suspects, and others must know of Dr. Maxwell’s disagreement with Dr. Henry.
She stood and searched for any remaining notes or papers mentioning xolotl. She looked in every nook and cranny, in every drawer and through every book that hadn’t been taken by the police. Nothing. Her throat and eyes stung with the building pressure of frustrated tears. How on earth was she going to prove Maxwell wasn’t responsible if she had no information?
Saffron dashed to her little desk, snatching up her handbag and stuffing her arms into her jacket. Her mind was racing to match her heart. How quickly could she get to the police station?
CHAPTER 6
The taxi stopped outside the police station, and Saffron, despite her nerves, paused when she stepped onto the bustling pavement. Would she even be allowed to see Dr. Maxwell? As she wasn’t his relation or his solicitor, she wasn’t sure. Maybe she could at least leave him a message.
