The Greenhouses

When I reached the greenhouses, I couldn't help but let out a quiet whistle. Compared to the Church, especially, they were amazing. Not because of the structures themselves (although the amount of money it took to buy that much glass and keep it clean and unbroken was staggering) but in what it contained. While the church held nothing but dust, spiders, and memories, the greenhouses were quite literally bursting with life.

One of the greenhouse panels was broken, nothing but a jagged edge of glass, and through the broken pane grew green vines, thick as my arms, sprouting leaves as big as my head. Smaller vines twined around them, making me think of veins twining about muscle. The vines grew up and along the walls and ceiling of the greenhouse before tapering to end in soft, welcoming spirals and curls.

I bend to look at the broken pane. It must have broken a long time ago, for the vines to be this developed, but the glass is lying right there on the ground, still, and bits of it are imbedded in the vines themselves. You'd think that an immaculate gardener like Lord Peter would have cleaned them up, and if not him, some servant hoping for a good word.

Something else glints at me, something metal. I push the vines aside, heart speeding up as it becomes more clear. It's her camera, the lens smashed and the body dented, but the the film itself may still have survived.

I struggle to pull it out, sweating. It's truly jammed between the thick sinews of vine, but I finally tear it free. Fingers trembling, I can see the haunted face of Miss Emma Price against my eyelids again. I open the back of the camera. The film is there, and intact. Trembling, I fold it in my fist and kiss my fingers before slipping it into my pocket.

I've found what I came for, but that doesn't mean I'm finished.

The door to the greenhouse is heavier than it looks, but I get it open and step inside. The steamy heat boggles me for a moment. Clearing my eyes, I am physically staggered as to the beauty of the greenery inside. There's nothing like this anywhere else in London. The money he could make showing these things...selling them, even just having tours of the greenhouses...not that he needs it, though.

I do, and I'm tempted, for a moment, to take a cutting of one of the incredible flowers. My pocketknife in hand, I stop. It's a supernatural crime, that's for certain, at this point. The major suspect expressly forbid me from entering these very greenhouses. The vines outside obviously had grown only in a few days, and at the same time couldn't possibly have done so.

It was possible there was magic in the very plants, and I very much did not want to risk taking that magic with me...or worse, angering it.

My pocketknife's back in my pocket and I'm leaning against the door of the greenhouse, breathing the cold air of the city outside. I'm sweating, nearly physically ill at what I'd almost done. And then, only then, does it occur to me to wonder why.

They're only plants, after all.

The Church

I contemplated, for a moment, the front entrance. I could knock, and tell the Butler that Lord Peter'd given me permission to look around the estate. But my funding was hinging on him believing that I didn't think of he or the family he served as suspects, and while Lord Peter might tell him anyway...I'd rather cling to the hope that he wouldn't, instead of depriving myself of money.

The fence was easy to jump. I swung myself over it, careful not to catch my coat, and landed on a well-kept path leading to my left and right. I shrugged and chose a direction.

The path wound leisurely past immaculately-kept garden plots full of twining green things and bursts of red and yellow and white and pink. Whatever else Lord Peter was, he was a fantastic gardener.

Evidently, however, I'd chosen wrong. The path ended in a wrought-iron gate leading into the mansion house's private cathedral. I didn't hang around long, not wanting to be seen by any servants who happened to be on duty, but I did take a glance around. It's always good to see how the other half lives.

The cathedral was small, compared to most public churches, but too large by half for the aging Lady Myrna and her only son. Great windows twice my size dominated every wall, ornate stained-glass depicting blushing maidens and pious saints. I shouldn't have worried about servants, though. Creeping closer, I saw that the place looked like it hadn't been set foot in in years, nevermind being cleaned. Thick carpets of dust coat every surface, and happy spiders wove away in the rafters.

I shrugged and turned away. Not being particularly religious myself, it didn't shock me that Lord Peter had been shirking his prayers. It was odd that Lady Myrna did not insist, however, and odder that she too would have neglected her duties to God. The one time I had met her, years ago, had painted her in my mind as a something of a ship in full sail, strong and proud and moving forward at any cost.

But it hardly mattered. I doubted very much that if Lord Peter had committed this crime (or even if he hadn't) it was a religious one in motive. I'd seen those before, and they tended to involve more nails through hands and less stealing of hearts.

The Dream

Two nights later....

"You have to see the photograph!" She says, soft and dark and dead. Her voice is indistinct in the rain and mist, in the other voices. All around, voices, laughing, crying, screaming whispering.

"I did, love. Poor girl, all torn to shreds." It doesn't occur to me to ask who did it. It doesn't occur to me to ask anything at all. I'm not an investigator, here, but a candle among ghosts. My wick is burning down and soon I will be just like them, nothing but smoke.

"No!" She wails, shoving the other voices away with the force of it. "Not that one! Go back! Go back, you must see!" She gets quieter, wistful. "He was so very beautiful..."

I watch her fade, slowly, smiling. I can't see her anymore, in amongst the dimness of the voices. They pressed in on her, consumed her, rushed into the hole her scream left. They gather in layers, gaining in brightness, and the last image I saw as I awoke is that of a rose, gray, almost green, against the red of my eyelids.

I barely remembered to grab my coat before I'm out the door and hurrying down the early, sleepy streets to the Rose Estate. This wasn't the first time I'd dreamt of my cases, nor was it the first that the dreams presented me with new information. I didn't pretend to understand it, but I thanked the Lord that it happened.

She took a picture before she died, I was sure of it. She was a photographer if she was anything. For two pennies one of the urchins down Narrow Street had told me about what a good thief she was, and the new picture-box she'd stole from "some toff".

"Think it's still around, then, now she's been offed? In 'er apartment, mebbe..." The little boys eyes had gleamed with avarice.

I had told him probably not, looters or landlords were sure to have gotten to it by now.

But if they hadn't known where to look...

I sped up, rounding the corner, and stopped dead.

Master Peter Rose was walking towards me, trim and sleek, long-fingered hands clutching hat and cane. I approached. "Good morning, sir. Might I have a moment of your time?" I said, expecting the usual glare and then forgiveness, the slightly mad speech, and then the silence that he normally gave. It was worth a try, however.

He smiled. "And a good morning to you, sir, as well. Yes, it is a lovely morning, isn't it? So nice and quiet...What do you need?"

Surprised, I fell into step beside him. "My name is Williams, James Williams. I'm investigating the death of a girl who was killed near here...in front of your house, even. Your butler reported the murder...said the girl had been asking about you. Were you involved with her?"

Peter's fingers drummed on the brim of his top hat. "Girl?" He laughed, a little too easily. "Surely you know, Mr. Williams, that mine is far more the path of the simple gardener than the social butterfly. I wouldn't know what to do with a girl anymore than I know how to fly."

"You're sure you'd never spoken to her? Apparently she was quite dogged in trying to reach you. "

"What did you say her name was?"

"Emma. Emma Walker-Pryce."

His fingers stilled. A pause (perhaps a beat too long?), and he shook his head. "Sorry, can't recall meeting her." He set the hat on his head. "If that's all, I'm off." He tipped his hat. "Cheers."

"You won't mind if I have a look around the grounds, would you?"

His steps barely slowed, but the little hitch was there. "Not at all. Only, please, don't disturb my plants. It's far too cold for them in this beastly city, you'll let all the warmth out of the greehouse."

I narrowed my eyes at is back, watching him go, and then spun on my heel to investigate the greenhouses.

The Photograph

The photograph slid across my desk in all its black-and-white gore. A young woman, her face calm in death, eye closed. One hand in a pool of blood, languid. She looked like she was sleeping, except for the huge cut up through her stomach, the flash of white bone at her ribs.

I already hated this case.

Jones indicated the photo with a tilt of his head. "A Miss Emma Walker-Price, of Narrow Street."

I met his eyes, surprised. "That's Limehouse. People get offed all the time there, and none of them are even breathed about to the likes of us. What makes her different?"

"'Cause she weren't killed in Limehouse. Got found lying in the middle of the street, pretty as you please, right outside the old Rose place."

I whistled, scanning the photo again. "Far from home."

Jones leaned on the corner of my desk. "Should've seen the butler, he was a wreck, he was. In pieces."

"He bring you in on this?"

Jones nodded.

"Why?"

"'Dunno. Said she was often a visitor to the place recently, askin' after Master Peter. Maybe he wanted to make sure he wasn't a suspect." He grinned. "Y'know, on the radio. 'S always the butler's done it."

I ignored him, picking up the photo. "Knifed, y'think?"

"If so, a dull one. Looks torn more than cut. Besides, here's the odd part." He shakes his head. "That ain't how she died."

"What?"

"That tear in her, that ain't what killed her."

I examined the photo. "What did, then? I see no other marks..."

"She choked. The killer must've given 'er something, 'cause there weren't any marks, then extracted whatever it was and torn her up the middle."

"But...why?"

Jones looked at me, grey eyes serious. "That's why I brought this to you. Y'see, this ain't an act of revenge, it's no petty crime. This was done with a purpose." He took the photo from my fingers. "Her dress was removed down to her waist, unbuttoned. Her mouth is clean, so we don't know what choked her. And...they took her heart."

I mulled this over. "You think this was a studied thing, a planned thing, and you think it had somethin' to do with the arcane."

Jones nodded. "Why else steal a woman's heart?"

I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Literally, I mean."

"Well, if you're just plain mad...But you're right, the rest of the crime doesn't speak of madness."

"You'll take the case, then?"

"Will I be payed?"

"The butler promised, either for coverin' it up or solvin' it, whatever we wanted. HE wanted assurance that neither he nor any of his household would be suspected in the matter."

"I can't promise that. The girl'd been asking for Lord Peter, and he's an odd one. A very odd one."

Jones shrugged. "Then I can't promise you'll be payed. You'll take it?"

I stared at the photo, at the woman's face, framed by her dark hair, and sighed. "Dammit, Jones. You knew I would when you walked in here."

He flashed a grin. "Yeh. But I wanted to see how long you'd last, keepin' it up that you were still decidin'. Anyway, thanks for this." He stands and grabs his hat from the stand.

"You're welcome. You're always welcome."

"Yeah, but this one...it's grisly, and it's a dame. I know you hate seein' 'em dead."

"And yet the murderers keep on offing them." I picked up my own hat, slinging my coat over my shoulder. "See you, Jones."

"Ta."