Spruce was a long-limbed fellow with curly but receding hair and a beard peppered with grey. His manner, as he shook their hands, was friendly but reserved, his eyes evading theirs in a fashion that struck Burton as diffident rather than shifty.
“What do you make of it, old chap?” the king’s agent asked. “Have you seen anything like this before?”
“Not at all. It’s utterly fantastic. The rate of growth is simply staggering, yet the species—whatever it is—appears more suited to the humidity and heat of central Africa than to a cold British winter.”
“Is that where the seeds have come from?”
“I would say so.”
Spruce squatted and gestured for Burton and Swinburne to follow him down. The latter manoeuvred carefully to ensure that his buttocks were facing away from Fidget.
Spruce said, “Look at this.” He used his right hand to scrape away snow until a layer of ash was revealed, then dug a little more, exposing a tangle of thin white roots.
“It has a fibrous and propagative root system with a plenitude of rhizomes, so that while one plant may sprout from the seed, a great many more will then sprout from the expanding roots. But here’s the peculiar thing—” Spruce dug at the ash until he’d made a shallow trench between the trunks of two tall, thick bushes. “Do you see what I mean?”
Burton examined the exposed roots. “As you said, both plants have grown from a single artery.”
“Ah,” Spruce responded. “That’s the thing. These particular ones haven’t. I can see from their stage of development that they were both seedlings.”
Burton used his forefinger to trace the path of one particular root. “But this joins them.”
“Exactly. Every seed-born plant has extended roots to its fellows, and those roots have merged with one another. It’s almost as if all of this—” He stood and held his arms out to encompass all the verdure, “is a single organism.”
Swinburne asked, “And its growth? Have you an explanation? A theory?”
“None. Were I not witnessing it with my own eyes, I should say it’s impossible. All this—in two days!”
Burton turned and gazed at the leaves, flowers and fruits.
Spruce asked, “Did you encounter anything like it during your expedition to the Central Lakes?”
“Nothing close,” Burton answered. “Nothing even with this hue.”
“Then, if you’ll pardon the question, why are you here, Sir Richard? I wasn’t aware that you counted botany among your interests.”
“I’m a hobbyist, nothing more, but this phenomenon is so thoroughly outré that it’s piqued my curiosity.”
“I can certainly understand that.”
“If you find out anything more, would you let me know? I live at fourteen Montagu Place.”
“For sure.”
“Thank you. We’ll not interrupt your research any further.”
After bidding the botanist farewell, Burton, Swinburne and Fidget headed back the way they’d come.
“We didn’t learn much,” Swinburne ruminated. “What now?”
“We’ll drop in on my pharmacist, Mr. Shudders.”
“Why?”
“He supplies me with Saltzmann’s Tincture.”
Swinburne screeched, “What? What? What? The drug Sadhvi Raghavendra has repeatedly warned you against is sold by a man named Shudders—and still you gulp it down? I think you might be the most ridiculous fellow I’ve ever met!”
“That, Algernon, is because, unlike me, you’ve never had the advantage of encountering yourself.”
“But—for crying out loud!—you’re buying more of the foul poison? Your addiction is beyond the bounds! Must I gather the Cannibals and have them help me lock you away until the dependency has passed?”
“I simply want to know where he gets the tincture from.”
“Why?”
“Because I think it’s the cause of my visits to variant histories.”
Burton and Swinburne emerged from the jungle-swathed Cauldron and strode westward along Leadenhall Street toward Cheapside. Fidget jogged along beside them, panting, his tongue flapping and his nose twitching as he detected a myriad of enthralling odours.
Swinburne asked, “Why do you think Saltzmann’s the source of your hallucinations?”
“I’ve told you, Algy, they’re not hallucinations. Initially, I thought the first incident was caused by my run-in with Spring Heeled Jack, but I took the tincture right afterward, and the next time I drank it, the second incident occurred. On that occasion, Jack wasn’t involved.”
At the Bank of England they flagged down a landau.
“Oxford Street,” Burton directed.
They boarded, and the carriage got moving.
In contrast to their journey to the Cauldron, their ride away from it was conducted in silence. Burton was pondering the disparate mysteries, while Swinburne was fuming about his friend’s dangerous addiction.
By the time they disembarked, it was snowing again, albeit lightly.
Swinburne jammed his floppy hat onto his springy hair, wound his long scarf around his neck, and dodged away from Fidget’s eager teeth.
“That’s the place,” Burton said, pointing a little way ahead.
Despite the weather, the famous thoroughfare was crowded, and they had to push through the milling pedestrians, hawkers and ne’er-do-wells to reach the pharmacy. They entered. A bell clanked over the door. In response to it, an individual emerged from a back room and stood behind the counter. He was a lanky, grey haired, gaunt-faced and terribly stooped old man, wrapped in a thick coat and with fingerless woollen gloves on his hands.
“Good afternoon, Sir Richard,” he said in a voice that sounded like creaking wood.
“Hello, Mr. Shudders,” Burton said. “How’s business?”
“Mustn’t grumble. Mustn’t grumble. Can I be of service? Saltzmann’s, is it? My stock is low, but I think I have two or three bottles remaining.”
“No,” Burton replied, “I have sufficient, but could you tell me where it comes from?”
“The supplier? Locks Limited, sir.”
“And where is that located?”
Shudders pushed out his lips, tugged at his right ear, and squinted his eyes. “I don’t rightly know. I started selling the tincture some five years ago after being approached by a company representative. Other than that youth—”
“Youth?” Burton interrupted.
“Why, yes, a very young man. He convinced me of the efficaciousness of the potion and left with me a case of bottles, promising to deliver more if I sold them.”
“Which you did?”
“The very next day. As a matter of fact, it was you who purchased them, and where they are concerned, you’ve been my principal customer.”
“Have I indeed?” Burton tried to remember how he’d become acquainted with Saltzmann’s. His normally excellent memory failed him. That, in itself, filled him with suspicion.
“By what method are the bottles delivered?” he asked.
“Whenever my stock is low, a wagon brings a new box and I pay for it on the spot.”
Swinburne interjected, “But how do you inform them when you’re running out?”
“I never have to. They always turn up at just the right time.”
“And you only have two or three bottles left,” Burton noted. “Which means you’re expecting another delivery soon?”
“Yes. Later today or tomorrow, I should think.”
The king’s agent pondered this for a moment. “Do they stop in the street?”
“No. There’s a delivery yard out back.”
“Mr. Shudders, for reasons I cannot go into, I have to investigate Locks Limited. Can I count on your cooperation?”
The pharmacist looked worried and wrung his hands. “Has there been some problem with the tincture, sir? Should I stop selling it?”
“No problem other than the mystery of its ingredients. Concerns have been raised that it might be extremely addictive.”