The Last Camellia: A Novel (9 page)

Fifteen Years Prior

“State your age for the record,” the officer said to me, emotionless. He sat at a gray steel desk, piled high with folders. A phone rang insistently, but he ignored it. “Miss Barton,” he said again. “Please do not waste my time. You can see I’m very busy here.”

I looked at my feet.

“I’ll ask you again, and if you don’t cooperate, it’s juvenile detention for you,” he barked. I recognized that familiar tone, just like my father’s. The anger that went zero to sixty in seconds, the transformation into a monster. When I was little, I didn’t know what brought it on, or how it happened. He would be normal one moment, and the next, he’d be tugging at his belt, chasing after me with that wild look in his eye. Mama said he was sick. Still, it didn’t give him permission to do what he did.

“You runaways never learn,” the officer said. “You think life’s more exciting on the streets, but then you mess up, and we have to institutionalize you.” He tapped his pen on the side of the steel desk. “Just in case you’re hard of hearing, I’ll give you one more chance to explain yourself, before you get juvenile detention—this time for sixty days. State your birth date for the record.”

I picked at my bleeding fingernails, gnawed down past the nail beds. Couldn’t he see that I
wanted
to be sent to juvie? I looked him straight in the eye and didn’t say a word.

He slammed his clipboard on the desk and stood up. “Stan! Book her!”

“Oh, there you are,” Rex said. “Sorry I took so long.”

“I’m in no rush,” I said a little defensively. “Anyway, who was on the phone?”

“Just my father’s business manager. I have to sign off on some architectural renderings for the house.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Hey, why don’t we go see the gardens? The sun’s out, finally, and I know the walk will cheer you up.”

“I’d love that,” I said, smiling again. “Let me grab my jacket.”

I tucked my cell phone and the camellia book into my backpack and followed Rex out onto the terrace that led to the garden pathway. The boxwood hedges that lined the walkway had been sorely neglected over the years, but I tried to imagine what they would have looked like in their prime—clipped into perfect submission, no doubt. Now, however, they appeared overgrown and ragged—bushy in some places, yellowed and anemic-looking in others. Poor things, like old ladies deprived of weekly visits to the hair salon. I longed to get my hands on a hedge trimmer and give them a haircut.

Yes, the property had become overgrown, but there was so much promise here. Good bones, as they said about houses. With a bit of pruning and replanting in places, the gardens could be grand again. My fingers practically itched to get started.

Rex and I followed the path past an ailing rose garden, but I stopped for a moment to pluck a sprig of ivy that threatened to suffocate an old tea rose. In theory, ivy is quaint, charming even. But I’d seen too many gardens destroyed by the vine, which has become an invasive weed in some parts of the world. It creeps in slowly and then quietly covers flower beds with its snakelike tendrils until all the life below has been snuffed out. I knelt down to plunge my fingers into the soil below the rose’s overgrown canes, which probably hadn’t been pruned in at least a decade, until I found the base of the ivy’s root. Stubborn and determined, it held on tightly, but I fought harder, pulling until I held the entire scraggly root in my hand. Invasive plants were like all evil things; the only way to ensure that they wouldn’t return was to face them head-on, battle it out, and win. Anything else was only a temporary fix. I sighed, thinking of my own life. I was letting the weeds grow all over me. They were threatening my happiness and, in some ways, my life. So why couldn’t I face them?

“Can’t resist a little weeding, can you?” Rex said with a smile.

I stood back to examine my work. “That’s better,” I said.

When the sun disappeared behind a cloud, the horizon took on a dark cast. I felt a raindrop on my cheek and quickly pulled the hood of my jacket over my head before we trudged down a soft slope, lower into the valley of the property. I stopped when my eyes met a stone statue nearly completely covered by ivy. I set down my bag and pulled the vines aside.

“Here, I’ll help you,” Rex said. Together we uncovered the face of a stone angel. Rex untangled the ivy’s clutch on her wings, and I pulled the vines free from her body. “There you are,” I said to the stone beauty. “That’s got to feel better.” Before I stood up, I noticed a few sprigs of purple pushing out near the base of the statue. I leaned in to have a closer look. Deadly nightshade, or rather,
Atropa belladonna
. “Rex!” I said.

He leaned in closer. “What is it?”

“It’s called
Atropa belladonna
,” I explained. “It’s a highly poisonous plant.” I remembered the story of a gardener who had been hospitalized after accidently rubbing his eye with a finger contaminated with the nightshade’s sap. Even in small doses, the plant was noxious, and potentially lethal. “Remind me to tell your parents to keep an eye out for this.” Rex’s younger sister had small children.

The wind picked up. I felt it seep through my coat, and I shivered.

“Should we turn back?” Rex asked.

“No,” I said. “Let’s see the camellias.” Past their normal blooming season, the trees had shed many of their blossoms, but the ones that remained were vibrant and showy, like the finale of a fireworks show. Up close, the trees did not disappoint. I stared up in awe at a yellow blossom, touching its petals lightly and breathing in the balmy, lemony scent. I pulled out Anna’s book, flipping to the page with the Petelo camellia.

“Do you think this is it?” Rex asked.

I nodded, studying the notes Lady Anna had left, before comparing the petal structure. “This has to be it,” I said. “But this numeric code? What do you think it means?” 5:3:31:2:1. “Maybe a location?” I counted the rows of trees, five in total. “Yeah, this is the fifth row, if you count from the east.” I turned around to reassess my bearings.

“And the tree is third from the front,” Rex said, his eyes meeting mine. “I think we cracked it.”

“Almost,” I said. “But what do the last numbers mean?” I walked to the next tree, stopping to admire its dark, emerald green leaves, so shiny and smooth. I picked up a pink blossom that had recently fallen to the ground and referred to the book again. The AnnaMaria Bellweather. But there were only two digits beside it—5:4—and no cryptic botanical name. “This doesn’t make any sense,” I said to Rex.

We walked through each row of trees. Some had fared better than others, and I paused to touch the carcass of a tree that appeared to have burned at some point in its history. Its bare, jagged branches had been charred on one side. Probably lightning. I hoped it wasn’t the Middlebury Pink.

“Drat,” Rex said when the rain began to increase in intensity. He pointed to an old outbuilding in the distance, and we ran to it, taking cover under its eaves. The roof sagged with moss, and the old rusty weather vane creaked on its axis. I peered through the dark window, using the sleeve of my jacket to wipe away the condensation so I could get a better look, which is when I thought I detected movement inside. “Hello?” I said, hearing my heart pound inside my chest.

“What is it?” Rex asked.

“Honey, I think there’s someone in there.”

He looked spooked, but I could tell he was putting up a brave front. “Nah,” he said.

I recoiled when I thought I heard door hinges creak. Frightened, I turned back to the pathway, picking up my pace to a sprint and then tripping on the root of a tree. I let out a cry of pain as I landed on my elbow.

“Addison!” Rex called from behind me. “Are you OK?”

Blood dripped from my arm when Rex found me a moment later. “Oh, honey, you’re hurt.”

“Sorry,” I said from the safety of the hillside. I could see the roof of the outbuilding below. Its sagging moss roof practically blended into the orchard. “I got a little spooked.”

“Come on,” he said, helping me up. “Let’s get you bandaged up.”

Rex and I left our muddy shoes by the door, and walked to the foyer, where I hung up my coat.

“I see you’ve been out in the gardens,” Mrs. Dilloway said from the stairway.

“Yes, we have,” Rex said. “Though it wasn’t the best day for a walk.”

“No,” Mrs. Dilloway said. “Not at all.”

I felt her eyes boring into me as we walked to the stairs. And then it hit me.
Hertzberg.

I spun around. “Rex, did you leave the newspaper on the terrace?”

“I think so,” he replied.

Mrs. Dilloway shook her head. “I brought it in when it began to rain,” she said, pointing to the side table. “There.”

A few raindrops had soaked the paper, but I could still make out the type. I tucked it under my arm and walked toward the stairs. I didn’t stop until Rex and I had made it to the second floor and had closed the bedroom door behind us. I laid the newspaper out on the bed, and set the camellia book beside it. The article stated that Lila Hertzberg had been abducted on the second of January in 1931. I turned to the Petelo page in the camellia book. The remaining digits read “31:2:1.” I gasped.
It must be a date.
I scanned the article, reading about Lila Hertzberg. She was born in Sussex.
Sussex.
I reread the cryptic botanical name below the code:
L. sussex Hertzberg
. Rex’s eyes met mine. “My God,” I said, shaking my head gravely. “What have we just found?”

That night, Rex took me to Milton’s, the pub in the village. “What will it be, spiced beef sandwich or fish and chips?” he said, setting the menu down.

“Well, I know what you’re getting,” I said, smiling as I pushed the menu aside and took a sip of the wine that the waiter had just uncorked and poured. Rex could never pass up the fish and chips.

Neither of us could shake the discovery we’d made in the garden today. “Rex, I don’t know what to make of things in the orchard.”

“Me either,” he said, rubbing his head. “But do you think the abductor would really lay out this information?”

“I don’t know,” I said, taking another sip of wine. “Maybe it’s his calling card.” I nodded to myself. “Or maybe Lady Anna was trying to piece it all together.”

“I’d vote for the latter,” he said. “Maybe she knew something sinister was going on at the manor. Maybe she was looking for clues, and she found them in the orchard.”

I refolded the napkin in my lap. “Do you think Mrs. Dilloway knows anything?”

“Oh, I’m sure she does,” Rex said. “She’s lived at the manor so long, she’s bound to know something.”

I sighed. “But getting her to talk is the real challenge. I’ve never met anyone so tight-lipped.”

“Hey,” he said. “Let’s take off our detective hats for a bit and enjoy the night.” He reached for my hand. “What do you say?”

“OK,” I said, cracking a smile.

He drew my arm toward him and ran his finger lightly against my skin until he stopped at my watch. “You know something crazy?” he asked, cocking his head to the right. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your bare wrist.”

I pulled my hand back instinctively.

He looked momentarily astonished. “I’ve just realized that I’ve seen every square inch of you,” he said, before slipping his finger between my wrist and my watch, “but I’ve never seen
this
wrist.”