Something was wrong, because it was clear she was upset by my presence. Before I could say anything, she reached for one of the information sheets on the table and pa.s.sed it to me. A map of the garden. "This ought to get you oriented." She pointed to a patch of dark green squares surrounded by what looked like dirt paths next to a pond rockery. "I suggest you start here."

I looked at the legend on the map. Garden of World Medicine. Next to it: Pharmaceutical Beds. "I'll do that."

I followed her into the other room and entered a gift shop filled with books, potpourri, seeds, calendars, and plant-related souvenirs. Half a dozen Easter lilies, the flowers just beginning to open, sat in pots wrapped in lavender or pale yellow foil on a table in the middle of the room. Will stood behind a counter at the cash register, sorting through receipts.

"The door to the garden is in the next room," Zara said to me. "Do go through."

The Chelsea Physic Garden was larger than I expected, an expansive private park with well-swept tree-lined gravel paths converging at a moss-covered statue of Sir Hans Sloane, the wealthy benefactor who bought the garden in the 1700s to ensure it could be maintained in perpetuity as an herbal garden and a place to teach. According to the map, I was looking at a large rectangle that was slightly squashed at the far end where the boundary followed the contours of the Thames and the Chelsea Embankment on the other side of a high redbrick wall. Here, as everywhere else in London, the trees were bare, but spring seemed more imminent in this rich garden with its peaty aroma of fresh mulch, vivid green carpet of gra.s.s, and the new growth of plants that had pushed through the soil.

The Garden of World Medicine was laid out in a way that reminded me of Monticello, with the same gra.s.sy pathways separating neat, tilled beds. Zara Remington found me on one knee, reading about a plant called Hyssopus officinalis among the Western European medicinal plants. The description on the little black-and-white marker read For all cold griefes of diseases of the chest and lungs, helping to expectorate tough phlemn. It sounded a lot like the hyssop plant William Coles described in Adam in Eden.

I stood up and said, "I'm sorry if I've come at an inconvenient time."

She pressed her lips together. I couldn't tell if she was worried or upset, or both. "I was rather hoping you would have looked at your e-mail before you arrived and found one from me asking you to delay coming until half four. Unfortunately, I didn't have your number or I would have rung you. I a.s.sumed we'd be through with the lily sale ages ago. Will stayed around to help me finish totaling the receipts . . . I suppose it'll be all right. He doesn't know why you're here and he's also one of my most trusted and loyal volunteers. He's been with me for years."

She was the first person so far who brought up the need for secrecy in discussing Kevin's letter. Maybe that meant she knew something, that Kevin had confided in her.

"I'm sorry," I said again. "I should have checked. London used to be my home and it's my first visit back in a while . . . I'm afraid I got sidetracked." I pointed to the hyssop. "About this plant-"

"Yes, we'll come back to that later." She folded her arms across her chest and studied me. "And before we go any further, I need to know about your relationship with Brother Kevin Boyle and how you managed to acquire the Fairbairn letter." She gave me a pointed look and added, "If you have the letter, you also have the book, do you not?"

Ryan had made the same request two days ago at Monticello. Explain yourself. The difference this time was that Zara Remington knew about Kevin's copy of Adam in Eden.

"I do have it," I said. Then I answered her questions, except I left out telling her about Bram Asquith and that the book was now safely in his vault in Washington. But I did tell her I was fairly certain Kevin had left the Solander box with the book and the letter in a locker at the Natural History Museum because he needed to hide them.

"Kevin hid them for a good reason." Her voice was grim. "And now he's dead. He rang me the day before he pa.s.sed away and told me he was convinced someone else was looking for the book. Was that person you?"

A seagull screeched and wheeled overhead, disappearing over the wall in the direction of the Thames. "No. It wasn't," I said, taken aback.

Zara gave me a searching look. "I'll have to take your word for it, won't I? And Ryan vouched for you."

I said a silent prayer of thanks to Ryan. "I'm afraid there isn't anyone else to ask. Ryan didn't know any of this before I visited him Friday at Monticello. And Kevin told me roughly the same thing he told you, that he believed someone was stalking him. You're the first person I've spoken to who knew he was worried about being followed."

That seemed to surprise her. "Do you have any idea who it was?"

"None."

"There was a rather gorgeous coffee-table book published a number of years ago called The Beauty of Marlborough Gardens," she said. "Would it be too great a coincidence to a.s.sume you're the same Sophie Medina who took the photographs for that book?"

"When my husband and I lived in London, we rented what used to be the gardener's cottage on the old Marlborough estate," I said, "before the garden was turned into a private communal park for the homes in that neighborhood. I put together that book as a fund-raiser for the garden club."

"Your photographs were stunning. I bought a copy at the Chelsea Flower Show and then I went to see the garden for myself." She paused. "Now I'm really curious what brings you here. You obviously have no professional connection to Kevin."

"I'm not a botanist or even a very good gardener, if that's what you're asking." Her lips curved in a small smile for the first time since we'd met. "But I have a personal connection. He was a dear friend. And to answer your question, I thought you might be able to tell me about the letter, and since you know about it, the book as well."

"I see. Do go on."

"Ryan Velis was interested in the Fairbairn letter because it seemed to substantiate a theory at Monticello that Thomas Jefferson kept a seed press, either a portable one or an actual cabinet, in the White House during his presidency. Perhaps the seeds he and George Washington collected for an American botanic garden, plus new specimens Jefferson added from the Lewis and Clark expedition."

Zara shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. "Let's walk, shall we?"

Walking suited me, too. Zara's initial suspicion that I was Kevin's stalker, her request that our meeting be kept a secret, and her concern that one of her colleagues had seen me arrive was making me jumpy. I nearly looked over my shoulder to see if Will Tennant was watching us with his peculiar stare through the gift shop window.

"So are you here because you believe I can help you find these seeds, or that I might know where they are?" She gave me a smile like we were a pair of conspirators.

I didn't take the bait. "It still hasn't been established that they even existed."

"Kevin believed they did."

I stopped walking. "He told you?"

"He did." She gave me a significant look. "And that, my dear, is the extent of my knowledge of the whereabouts of those seeds. A week after he left here, he was dead."

"A week after-? I thought Kevin came to London in February to give a talk at Kew Gardens."

"That's right, he did," she said. "And whilst he was here, he spent a morning on Portobello Road pottering around the book dealer stalls. That's when he found the copy of Adam in Eden at the bottom of a box with a jumble of books on English gardens. He crowed about what a lucky find it was, even though, at the time, he thought none of it was worth much."

We were standing in front of the statue of Hans Sloane, who appeared to be smiling down on us with sightless benevolence. The pockmarked statue was covered with moss that looked like dark green trim on his long flowing robe, and Sloane's carved face was so weathered that his eyes had worn away and it looked as if he were wearing large goggles.

"At the time?" I said. "Something changed his mind?"

"It did," she said. "But before I go on, where is the book right now? I do hope it's someplace safe."

Zara Remington was the only person who knew the entire history of the book, and Kevin had trusted her. "It's at Asquith's in Washington. Bram Asquith is a good friend of a friend of mine. He's appraising it as a favor."

"Well, Bram will certainly know in a tick about the provenance of that book. I hope he doesn't talk."

"He's not going to. However, there might be some question about who owns it now that Kevin is dead."

Zara put a hand to her forehead as though she were ma.s.saging a migraine. "Good Lord. Who are our options?"

I almost smiled at her use of "our."

"The Franciscans and an American billionaire named Edward Jaine. He was Kevin's benefactor."

"I didn't know Kevin was involved with him," she said with a faint note of distaste in her voice. "There have been rumors in the British press recently that Mr. Jaine has some rather unsavory business dealings."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't recall exactly, but I believe it had to do with computers that were being shipped to Third World countries. Perhaps they were substandard, I'm not sure. You can probably find the story on the Internet."

"I'll look. But you were going to explain about Kevin's trip here the week before he died."

Zara tucked a wisp of hair that had come down from her bun back into place. "It had to do with the book. He brought it back to England because someone wanted to take a look at it. A collector. That's when he found out how extraordinarily valuable it was." She lowered her voice. "Did Bram say anything to you?"

We continued walking down a broad gravel path toward a gate set into the brick wall at the back of the garden. Except for the occasional chuntering of traffic along the Chelsea Embankment on the other side of the gate and the twittering of invisible birds in the trees above us, Zara and I were alone in what seemed like our own secret garden in this quiet tucked-away corner of London. Almost four centuries ago, apprentices of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries had tilled this same soil, growing medicinal plants and studying their uses. Like Monticello, here the present seemed to recede to a gentler past that moved at the slow, unhurried rhythm of nature.

Only our conversation, in hushed tones, felt out of place.

"Yes," I said, "but this was before Bram had actually seen the book. He said he believed it was the personal copy of Sir Isaac Newton and, because of the original botanic prints, possibly William Coles's own copy that was meant to be a second edition."

She smiled. "Spot-on. Bram knows what he's talking about."

"So who did Kevin consult with in London?"

"I have no idea. Apparently the individual was interested in purchasing the book and wished to remain anonymous. Obviously the fewer people who knew Kevin had found pure gold in a box of dross, the better."

"I suppose you're right."

"Shall we finish our stroll and go back to the gift shop? I believe I've answered all your questions."

"You have, thank you. You've been very generous with your time."

Zara Remington had answered my questions, but she'd just added a new one. Who was the individual who wanted to buy Kevin's book? It wouldn't have been Edward Jaine.

And here was another question: Did that give someone else a motive for murder?

12.

"One final thing before we go inside," Zara said. "I nearly forgot that I promised to tell you about Hyssopus officinalis. Let's walk back over to the Garden of World Medicine."

"Was that the pressed plant inside Kevin's book?" I asked.

She smiled. "I see you found it."

"Yes, but found what, exactly?"

We walked across the spongy gra.s.s, back to the Western European medicinal plants. "As you know, John Fairbairn told Francis Pembroke that the plant he believed was Hyssopus, or hyssop, as we call it today, was wrongly labeled. In actual fact, it was another kind of hyssop."

"Water hyssop," I said.

"That's right." Zara looked surprised. "You've done some research. But water hyssop goes by the Latin genus name of Bacopa and it's best known for its memory-enhancing properties. It grows in wet places-on pond edges, muddy sh.o.r.es, lakes, that sort of environment. And it favors warm or tropical climates. It's not the same thing at all as Hyssopus officinalis. The plant that was pressed between the pages of Kevin's copy of Adam in Eden came from the genus Bacopa."

"So Pembroke was right?"

"It would seem he was, but Kevin did some checking and learned that particular species is extinct. In fact he half jokingly named it Bacopa lewisia extinctus."

"I get extinctus," I said. "And lewisia for Meriwether Lewis?"

Zara nodded. "If you discover a plant, then you are allowed to name it. Karl Linnaeus, who visited this garden when Philip Miller was the curator, supposedly named plants for his friends and weeds for his enemies."

I smiled. "How did Kevin learn that the plant was extinct? Did he bring it here to you?"

"Not to me," she said. "I'm sure Alastair helped him. I know Kevin made a trip to Wakehurst."

"Who is Alastair and what is Wakehurst?"

"Wakehurst Place is a rather splendid, rather old estate in Suss.e.x, about forty miles south of London. The Millennium Seed Bank, which is part of the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, is located on the property. It's an immense seed storage facility staffed by an international group of scientists. Their goal is to collect seeds from as many plants as possible throughout the world, to preserve them for future generations before the plants become extinct." Her mouth twisted in a smile. "To avoid more lewisias."

"And Alastair?"

"Dr. Alastair Innes. Brilliant man. He's in charge of the department of seed conservation. He would have been able to look at the DNA of the plant specimen Kevin brought him."

"I'd like to talk to him," I said. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to share his phone number or an e-mail address?"

"I'll give you his details when we go inside."

The wind had picked up and another seagull screeched overhead. By now it was probably well past five o'clock. At home it would be dusk. Here it was still bright, although the sunless milky light had thickened as though a gauze curtain had fallen over the garden.

Zara pointed to a tidy row of beds designated for pharmaceutical plants. "The plants you see here are used in modern medicines. The beds are arranged according to what discipline of medicine the drug derived from that plant is used for."

I read the signs out loud as we kept walking. "Oncology, neurology, psychiatry, ophthalmology." I turned to her. "Are all these plants really used for such serious conditions and illnesses . . . arthritis, eczema, Parkinson's disease?"

"They are. Be glad you weren't alive in William Coles's day, when the common belief was something known as the doctrine of signatures. If a plant physically resembled a particular organ of the body, it was used to treat ailments related to that part of the body."

"A heart-shaped plant treated heart problems?"

She nodded. "In medieval times, it did. Even today, a lot of people still believe plants are mostly used in homeopathic and alternative medicine, but you'd be surprised how many drugs used in modern-day medicine are plant based." She paused and said in a thoughtful voice, "Though I did think Kevin was rather too hopeful about the potential of Bacopa lewisia."

"What do you mean?"

"The Fairbairn letter mentioned that the misidentified plant was going to be included in the national botanic garden," she said. "Kevin believed, or at least hoped, it was amongst the seeds in Thomas Jefferson's White House collection."

We had stopped in front of a bed with plants dedicated to cardiology. Half a dozen small pink-and-white signs with a skull and crossbones and the words POISONOUS PLANTS were stuck in the ground in a little cl.u.s.ter. The markers looked like they had probably once been bright red, screaming danger, warning! before they were bleached by the sun, but now they almost looked decorative.

I knelt and read the names on the markers. "Digitalis lanata. Atropa belladonna . . . My G.o.d, these are highly poisonous."

"More commonly known as foxglove and deadly nightshade," Zara said. "You're quite right, so do be careful. We're deadly serious-excuse the pun-with the signs and the warning on the maps. Put your hand or a finger in your mouth after touching one of these plants and it really could be the last thing you ever do."

I shuddered. "I wonder if they grow poisonous plants in the garden of the Franciscan Monastery."

Zara looked startled, but then she said, "If you're asking whether someone could have poisoned Kevin with a plant from that garden, the answer is yes. It wouldn't be hard to do. More plants than you might think are highly toxic-the leaves, the berries, the flowers."

I stood up and we walked back to the gift shop. "I don't understand what could have happened to those seeds," I said. "If Dolley Madison knew they were so important to Thomas Jefferson, why didn't she get them directly to him? Montpelier, their plantation, was just down the road from Monticello. They were great friends."

"Believe it or not, perhaps I can answer that question for you," Zara said. "I wrote my thesis at uni on the subject of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century seed exchange between Britain and America."

She held the door and I walked inside. The room was warm after the raw, damp chill of the garden, fragrant with a pleasant potpourri of floral scents.

"Your botanic garden was originally conceived to be a showcase for American plants, all these exotic new varieties that we didn't have here in Europe," she said. "Unfortunately, the money and, it seemed, the political will were never there, and by the late 1820s, the current president, John Quincy Adams, turned the idea on its head. His treasury secretary wrote every foreign dignitary in America asking for plants from their countries, plus sent a letter to all naval officers, instructing them to bring home seeds from their foreign travels. And then, of course, there was your famous expedition to the South Seas a decade later that sent home more than fifty thousand plant specimens." She paused and shrugged. "I suspect the idea of a garden that was strictly American became too provincial, too quaint, for the world power the United States was becoming. George Washington was dead and Thomas Jefferson, as you may recall, never returned to Washington after he left the presidency. He considered being president of the United States one of his lesser accomplishments, so insignificant it wasn't even part of the inscription on his tomb."