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.