“Maybe . . . over there?” proposed Drayton, pointing toward a wooden bridge that was barely noticeable in the darkness and increasing swirl of mist. “I tromped around here Sunday but never did explore the gardens across that footbridge.” He paused. “If there even are any gardens.”
“That’s the only place we haven’t looked,” agreed Theodosia.
But crossing the bridge proved to be a rather strange experience. Suspended over a small burbling stream by a system of ropes that extended up into the trees, the narrow wooden bridge swayed dangerously and the planks echoed hollowly as Theodosia and Drayton marched across single file.
“This is like walking the plank,” said Theodosia.
“Most unnerving,” agreed Drayton, clutching the wooden railings as he shuffled along.
Once they’d crossed over the bridge they hesitated again. The forest was a lot darker over here, a lot more foreboding.
“This is certainly atmospheric,” said Theodosia. “I sure wish we’d brought a flashlight.”
“Agreed,” said Drayton. “Where do you think this path leads?” He indicated a stone pathway that peeled off toward the right and disappeared into dense foliage.
“Let’s find out,” said Theodosia.
Gingerly, they followed the narrow pathway for about fifty paces, pushing aside branches and hanging vines.
“This isn’t going anywhere,” fretted Drayton. “Unless it leads to a caretaker’s cottage or something.”
“Hold on,” said Theodosia. She was two steps ahead of him and had been watching the ground on either side of the pathway. “There’s some sort of marker up ahead.”
Drayton tiptoed forward and peered down. “Set way down there, who do you think it was designed for? Trolls?” He sounded snappy, almost cantankerous.
“This is it,” breathed Theodosia. Carved into a small, knee-level wooden sign were the words
“Strange little marker,” muttered Drayton.
“Come on,” said Theodosia as she turned off the stone path onto a narrow gravel path.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Drayton said irritably as he followed behind. “But what I really want to know is . . .” Drayton stopped dead in his tracks, mouth open. “Good heavens!”
Theodosia and Drayton both gazed in awe at a white marble statue that seemed to rise out of the forest floor. It was the figure of a giant angel, one knee bent as if in prayer, head down, wings fully extended.
“What’s
“I’d say she’s guarding the garden,” said Theodosia. In the dappled moonlight the angel appeared shimmery and ghostly.
“Is it a she?” asked Drayton. “Or a he?”
“Not sure,” said Theodosia. “Although now that you mention it, all the important angels seem to be male. Michael, Gabriel, Raphael.”
“Well, this certainly isn’t much of a garden,” sniffed Drayton, giving a perfunctory look at the mostly green plants that spread out in a dense circle around the statue. “I suppose I was expecting plants that flower at night. You know, like evening primrose, moonflower, or angel’s trumpet.”
Bending down, Theodosia studied a series of metal plaques. “These plants are a slightly different variety,” said Theodosia, her voice suddenly tight. “Take a look. There’s a reason this was dubbed the nightshade garden.”
But Drayton was beginning to fidget. “Really, it’s getting awfully late, Theodosia. Don’t you think . . .”
“Belladonna.” Theodosia’s voice rang out as she read from the ornate metal plaque at the base of a leafy green plant. She moved a few steps forward, read off another name. “Banewort.”
“What?” yelped Drayton. He spun around as if he’d suddenly been stung by something.
“Black nightshade, foxglove, poison rhubarb,” continued Theodosia. She stared at him, her gaze level and serious. “That’s what’s growing in this garden,” she told him.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Drayton, backing up a couple of steps now. “Who on earth would want to grow that stuff?”
“Obviously Miss Maybelle Chase does,” said Theodosia.
“How exceedingly strange,” said Drayton.
“I agree,” said Theodosia. “But the burning question in my mind is, could one of these plants be the nonspecific toxin that caused Mark Congdon’s death?”
Drayton stared at her for a few long moments. “What a terrifying thought,” he finally said.
They walked slowly back around the statue, letting the notion of a garden filled with deadly plants settle over them.
Crickets and the occasional cicada chirped and clicked, from a distance came the low hoot of an owl. Dead-on sound effects for a very eerie setting.
“So why an angel out here?” Drayton finally asked as he stared at the marble statue with its cool, stoic face. “Surrounded by all these dangerous, awful plants. What on earth do you think it means?”
“Not sure,” said Theodosia. “Maybe . . . an angel of death?”
Stepping into the big plantation house was like stepping back in time to the Victorian age. Tapestries hung on walls. Aubusson carpets covered gleaming wood floors. Lamps with fringed shades threw dim light on native cypress woodwork. Stuffed furniture was in shades of brown and apple green. Theodosia recognized a drawing by William Bartran, an early artist and naturalist who had sketched many of the South’s indigenous plants and animals.
“This is a very impressive home,” Drayton told Miss Maybelle once he and Theodosia had introduced themselves.
“Thank you kindly,” said Miss Maybelle. She was a tiny woman, probably in her late seventies, with an aristocratic air about her. Her rich purple dress had a beautiful cameo brooch pinned to it.
“It was so generous of you to open your home to the Plantation Ramble this past weekend,” said Theodosia.
“And allow visitors access to your beautiful gardens.”
“It’s always a pleasure to work with the community and the different garden clubs,” said Miss Maybelle. Her bright eyes peered sharply at the two of them. “You know, there just aren’t that many authentic plantations left in South Carolina. It’s important for folks to be able to come out and view a real slice of history. Of course, it gives the docents something to look forward to, as well.”
“I take it you have docents that help with the gardens?” asked Drayton.
“You don’t think I do it all myself, do you?” she asked with a mischievous grin on her lined face. “And, of course, the docents are tasked with taking visitors on guided tours, too. Usually on one designated weekend a month.”
“Do you by any chance have a list of docents?” asked Theodosia.
“I suppose I do,” said Miss Maybelle. She crooked a finger and they followed her into the library. She walked around a large rolltop desk and pulled open one of the narrow drawers. “This last Plantation Ramble was one of our most successful,” Miss Maybelle told them as she continued to search through paperwork. “Raised a lot of money for charity. The only unfortunate incident was that poor fellow who suffered a heart attack!” Miss Maybelle looked up and clapped a small, gnarled hand over her own heart. “Wasn’t that a shame?” She shuddered, as though the very thought of Mark’s collapse still upset her terribly. “I certainly hope he’s all right.”
“Unfortunately, he did not survive,” Theodosia told her.
Miss Maybelle’s face crumpled. “Oh no. Isn’t that
Theodosia saw no point in telling Miss Maybelle how Mark Congdon had really died. Not yet anyway. Especially since no one was sure of the exact cause.
“Here’s that list,” said Miss Maybelle, handing a sheet of paper to Drayton.
“Thank you,” said Theodosia.
“And were you able to find the nightshade garden?” asked Miss Maybelle, still peering up at Drayton. “That’s what you called about earlier, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed I did,” responded Drayton. “And we most certainly did locate it.”
