Blue Labyrinth

54

Read down the list of ingredients,” Margo said to Constance. “We’ll take them one by one.”

“Aqua vitae,” Constance said. She was seated in the library of the Riverside Drive mansion, the old journal in her lap. It was just past eleven in the morning — at Constance’s urgent summons, Margo had ducked out of work as quickly as possible. Constance’s graceful hands were trembling slightly with agitation, her face flushed. But her expression was under rigid control.

Margo nodded. “That’s an old-fashioned name for an aqueous solution of ethanol. Vodka will suffice.” She jotted a notation in a small notebook.

Constance turned back to the journal. “Next is laudanum.”

“Tincture of opium. Still available by prescription in the United States.” Margo made another notation, squinting as she did so — although it was still morning, the library windows were shuttered, and the light was dim. “We’ll get Dr. Stone to write us out a prescription.”

“Not necessary. There’s plenty of laudanum in the basement chemical stores,” said Constance.

“Good.”

Another pause, and Constance consulted the old journal. “Petroleum jelly. Calomel… Calomel is mercurous chloride, I believe. There are jars of it in the basement, too.”

“Petroleum jelly we can get at any drugstore,” said Margo. She looked over the list of the dozen-odd compounds she’d jotted down in her notebook. Despite everything, she felt a prickling sensation of hope. At first, Constance’s news of Hezekiah’s antidote, her showing Margo the old journal, seemed like a long shot. But now…

“Cascara bark,” Constance said, returning her attention to the journal. “I’m not familiar with that.”

“Cascara buckthorn,” said Margo. “Rhamnus purshiana. Its bark was, and still is, a common ingredient in herbal supplements.”

Constance nodded. “Oil of chenopodium.”

“That’s another name for wormseed oil,” said Margo. “It’s mildly toxic, but nevertheless was used as a common ingredient in nineteenth-century quack medicines.”

“There should be some bottles of both in the basement, then.” Constance paused. “Here are the last two ingredients: Hodgson’s Sorrow and Thismia americana.”

“I haven’t heard of either of them,” Margo said. “But they are obviously botanicals.”

Constance rose and retrieved a huge botanical dictionary from the bookshelf. Placing it on a stand, she began leafing through it. “Hodgson’s Sorrow. An aquatic, night-blooming water lily of the family Nymphaeaceae, with a spectacular deep-pink color. In addition to its color, it has a most unusual odor. It doesn’t say anything here about pharmacological properties.”

“Interesting.”

There was a silence as Constance continued to read through the entry. “It’s native only to Madagascar. Very rare. Prized by collectors of water lilies.”

Silence settled over the library. “Madagascar,” said Margo. “Damn.” Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her tablet, accessed the Internet, and did a quick search for Hodgson’s Sorrow. With the flick of a finger, she scrolled quickly down through the entries. “Okay, we’ve got a break. It seems there’s a specimen in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.” She called up the website for the garden, searched through it for a moment. “It’s in the Aquatic House, which is part of the main greenhouse complex. But how will we get it?”

“There’s only one sure way.”

“Which is?”

“Steal it.”

After a moment, Margo nodded.

“Now for the final ingredient.” Constance consulted the encyclopedia again. “Thismia americana… A plant found in the wetlands around Chicago’s Lake Calumet. It flowers for less than a month above ground. Of interest to botanists not only because of its very localized habitat, but because it’s a mycoheterotroph.”

Margo said, “That’s a rare kind of plant that parasitizes underground fungi for its nourishment, instead of photosynthesis.”

Suddenly Constance froze. A strange expression crept over her face as she stared at the encyclopedia. “According to this,” she said, “the plant went extinct around 1916, when its habitat was built over.”

“Extinct?”

“Yes.” Constance’s voice had taken on a dead cast. “A few years ago, a small army of volunteers undertook a careful search of Chicago’s Far South Side, with the specific intent of finding a specimen of Thismia americana. They were unsuccessful.”

She laid the book down, walked to the dying fire. She stopped, staring into it, while twisting a handkerchief between her hands. She said nothing.

“There’s a possibility,” Margo said, “the Museum might have a specimen in its collections.” Using her tablet again, she accessed the Museum’s Internet portal, entered her name and password. Opening the online catalog of the Botany Department, she did a search for Thismia americana.

Nothing.

Margo let the tablet settle on her lap. Constance continued twisting the handkerchief.

“I can see if there isn’t something similar in the Museum’s collection,” said Margo. “The mycoheterotrophs are all quite similar, and might have similar pharmacological properties.”

Constance turned toward her quickly. “Go to the Museum. Retrieve the closest range of specimens you can find.”

Of course, thought Margo, this would also involve stealing. God, how was that going to work out? But when she thought of Pendergast upstairs, she realized they had no choice. After a silence, she said: “We’re also forgetting something.”

“Which is?”

“The antidote that Hezekiah wrote down here… it didn’t work. Hezekiah’s wife died anyway.”

“Leng’s final note said something about a wee mistake. One small oversight. Do you have any idea what the oversight might have been?”

Margo turned again to the formula. It was a simple preparation, really, except for the last two highly unusual botanicals. “It could be anything,” she said, shaking her head. “The proportions might be wrong. The preparation could have been botched. A wrong ingredient. An unexpected interaction.”

“Think, please think!” Margo could hear the handkerchief tear in Constance’s hands.

Margo tried to comply, thinking carefully about the ingredients. Again, the last two were the ones that were unique. The rest were more common, their preparations standard. It would have to be in the two rare ingredients where the “oversight” lay.

She scanned the preparation directions. Both plants had been extracted into tinctures using a common method — boiling. Usually that worked, but in some cases boiling denatured certain complex plant proteins. Today the best method of botanical extraction for pharmacological use was via chloroform.

Margo looked up. “A room-temperature extraction of these two botanicals using chloroform would be more efficacious,” she said.

“I’m sure I can find chloroform in the collections. Let us proceed with all haste.”

“We should test it first. We have no idea what compounds are in these two plants. They could be deadly.”

Constance stared at her. “There’s no time for a test. Pendergast seemed to rally yesterday evening — but now he’s taken a decided turn for the worse. Go to the Museum. Do what you have to do to get the mycoheterotrophs. Meanwhile, I’ll collect as many of these other ingredients as I can from the basement, and…” She stopped when she saw the look on Margo’s face. “Is there a problem?”

“The Museum,” Margo repeated.

“Of course. That’s the logical place to find the necessary ingredients.”

“But they would be stored in… in the basement.”

“You know the Museum better than I,” Constance said. When Margo did not reply, she continued: “Those plants are vital if we’re to have any hope of saving Pendergast.”

“Yes. Yes, I know they are.” Margo swallowed, then slipped her tablet back into her bag. “What are we going to do about D’Agosta? We said we’d stay in touch, but I’m not so sure we should mention these… plans.”

“He’s a police officer. He couldn’t help us — and he might stop us.”

Margo bowed her head in assent.

Constance nodded. “Good luck.”

“You, too.” Margo paused. “I’m curious — that note… in the journal. It was written to you. What was that all about?”

A silence. “Before Aloysius, I had another guardian. Dr. Enoch Leng. The man who wrote that final note in the journal.”

Margo paused, waiting. Constance never volunteered information about herself; Margo knew virtually nothing about her. Many times she had wondered where she had suddenly come from and what her real relationship was to Pendergast. But now, most uncharacteristically, Constance’s voice took on a softer, almost confessional tone.

“Dr. Enoch had a notorious interest in a certain branch of chemistry. I sometimes acted as his lab assistant. I helped him with his experiments.”

“When was this?” Margo asked. It seemed strange: Constance looked to be only in her early twenties, and she had been Pendergast’s ward for years.

“Long ago. I was a mere child.”

“Oh.” Margo paused. “And what branch of chemistry interested this Dr. Enoch?”

“Acids.” And Constance smiled faintly: a faraway, almost nostalgic smile.