Gardeners' Killing Time

Chapter One: The Ghastliness in the Greenhouse

Emma Peel parked her white Lotus Elan next to Steeds' green Bentley on the sweeping gravel drive. She had been summoned by telephone, with the usual, crisp, "Mrs Peel, you're needed." followed by the address and a cryptic injunction to 'enter by the side gate'. Now as she got out of the car, she swept her gaze around.

It was certainly an impressive house – not quite a mansion, but close – well set back from the road. Emma noted that all the curtains were closed, which meant one of two things; either there had been a death in the house, or whatever had happened had done so at night. Of course, she thought, if Steed wants me here, it's probably both!

The 'side gate' was set into a wall which extended out from one side of the house as if to enclose a garden, which it did. The garden itself was obviously well-tended, but showed a variety of plants not commonly found in the English garden. What drew Emmas' attention, however, was the greenhouse, a rambling, Victorian structure that took up most of the considerable acreage behind the house and looked as if it belonged in Kew Gardens. Seeing that the door stood open, she made her way in, calling out as she did so,

"Steed? Are you in here?"

"Over here, Mrs Peel!" Came the answer.

Emma pushed her way past a number of plants even more exotic than those in the garden into a more open space. This area was surrounded by benches and was clearly used for potting or setting seedlings and grafts. But several benches had been overturned, some pots broken and trays spilled, whilst the floor was scattered with earth and compost. More importantly, there were two bodies lying there, obviously quite dead.

John Steed rose to his full height from where he had been crouched beside one of the bodies, absently brushing some earth from the knees of his trousers. He was as immaculate as usual, and his hawklike features broke into his usual wry smile of greeting.

"Good morning, Mrs Peel. What do you make of this?" He asked.

"Competition at the Flower Show rather intense this year?" She asked. "I've known people ready to kill over chrysanthemums."

"Quite so." Steed replied. "But I don't think this had to do with the size of anyones' cucumbers."

He indicated the body at this feet with his umbrella. It was that of a portly gentleman in his sixties, clad in pyjamas, a dressing gown and slippers. Emma took a closer look. The fringe of hair around the head was pure white, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles lay askew across the nose. The face was jowly and might well have been benevolent in life, but now it was convulsed in shock, pain or both, and marred by an ugly, raised weal that curled from just in front of the right ear to the corner of the mouth.

"Allow me to introduce the late Professor Sir William Grafting." Steed said. "Renowned botanist, horticulturalist, biochemist and expert on edible plants and plant derivatives. The equally late gentleman over there is Mr Roger Greengrass, a graduate student and the Professors' assistant in maintaining this remarkable collection.

"Early this morning, the maid took the Professor his breakfast as usual in his bedroom, but found that he was not there, although the bed had been slept in. It was not, it seems, uncommon for the Professor to rise in the small hours if struck by an idea, so the maid went to his study. Failing to find him there, she came to the next likeliest place -this greenhouse – and found matters as you see them.

"Naturally, she summoned the police, who in turn notified me. I came out and spoke with the maid, then sent her home and called you, Mrs Peel."

Emma had been examining the other body while she listened. It was that of a sturdy young man in his twenties, with sandy hair and pleasant features, though these, like the Professors' , were distorted. His shirt was partially untucked, he wore no tie, and his feet were pushed into plimsolls without socks. Dressed in a hurry, Emma concluded. There was no weal on his face, but as she examined him, she found one, identical with the Professors', across the palms of both hands. He must have thrown them up to defend himself. She decided, knowing that Steed would not have missed this obvious indication and would expect her to reach the same conclusion.

"Why us?" She asked. "Gardening is hardly a matter of national security."

Steed nodded. "Normally, you'd be right, Mrs Peel. But Professor Grafting was, as I said, a specialist in food plants. The population of the world is increasing geometrically, Mrs Peel, and sooner or later, ways must be found to feed all those extra mouths. Grafting was in the forefront of research aimed at discovering new foods, or new ways of producing high-yield, nourishing foods from known but previously untapped sources."

"Important work." Emma agreed. "But not something to kill over, surely?"

Steeds' face went grim. "Unfortunately, both large commercial interests and unfriendly overseas ones took a dim view of the Professors' research."

Emma absorbed this, then changed the subject. "I can't make out what they died of." She said. "There are no stab or gunshot wounds, and they weren't strangled. There's clearly been a fight here. but the only marks on ether of them are these weals. If I had to guess, I'd say they were made with some kind of whip, but they're not killing wounds, unless there was something else. Electrocution?"

"It does resemble it, at first glance." Steed allowed. "But we'd better wait for the post-mortem, I think.

"I've already checked most of the house. It looks as if both of them had gone to bed, then been roused and come down here."

Emma looked around. "This floor is covered with spilled soil. There should be footprints."

Steed nodded. "There are. One pair of slippers, one pair of plimsolls, and those."

The tracks were...odd. Two circular dots, about three inches across and a couple of feet apart; behind and between them a streak, about eighteen inches long and again, about three inches wide. The pattern repeated itself at eighteen-inch intervals, as far as Emma could see.

"Looks like a very small man on crutches." Emma hazarded. "A midget on crutches using an electric whip? We've seen some odd things, Steed, but I don't find that likely."

"Nor do I, Mrs Peel." Steed allowed. "Let's look at the Professors' study, shall we?"

The study was untidy, the untidiness of a brilliant but rather absent-minded man, but there was a clear space on the desk. Clear except for a thick file and a bottle of pink, oily liquid. Steed picked up the bottle.

"I'll take this and have it analysed." He said. "Mrs Peel, would you take the file, see what you can get out of it?"

Emma nodded and picked up the manila folder, then saw the desk diary underneath it. "I'll take this as well." She said. "Maybe it'll tell us who came calling last night?"

Steed nodded. "I'll see you later, Mrs Peel."

Once back to the flat, Emma went through the diary first. Most of the appointments seemed to be with officials from the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, or with academic colleagues. But there were two in the last week that stood out. One was with a Bill Masen, who on investigation turned out to be a biochemist employed by a company called Arctic and European Fish Oils Ltd. The other was with a man called Yuri Koslov, about whom it seemed very little was known.

Setting that aside – she would need Steeds' contacts to find out any more – she turned to the file. Emma had a wide scientific knowledge, and though botany and biochemistry were not her specialities, she could make out the general drift. Professor Grafting had been given, by this Koslov character, a sample of vegetable oil. Upon analysis, it had proved to be of "exceptionally high food value" and to come from no known species. Koslov had indicated that a near-infinite supply of this oil – or the plant which produced it - might be available at a ridiculously low price.

The Russian posed as a humanitarian, but Grafting had clearly had his doubts. He had taken a sample of the oil to Masen, to see if the well-equipped labs of Arctic and European could detect any hidden unpleasantness. Apparently, the oil was all Koslov said it was, and Grafting was promptly offered very large sums if he could obtain specimens or seeds of the plant. However, he had been cautious still, and had told both Masen and Koslov outright that he would need to consult with the Government first. Neither had been pleased by that, it seemed, but neither had made anything that could be construed as a threat.

Arctic and European were an established company with a spotless reputation. No doubt they engaged in a little industrial espionage – a company had to if it was going to survive – but Emma didn't think they'd go as far as murder.

Koslov was another matter. There had to be Iron Curtain connections, and whether he was a dissident, a saboteur or simply a crook, he would bear closer examination.

She spoke in a calm, friendly tone. "It would be polite to introduce yourself, rather than just standing there."

Emma turned slowly on the revolving desk chair, keeping her hands in view. She found herself facing a tall, dark, handsome man wearing what appeared to be a military greatcoat over an open-necked shirt and trousers. The disarming grin he offered her was given the lie by the heavy, old-fashioned revolver he kept levelled at her head.

"I don't think I'm going to introduce myself." He said in a pleasant Canadian accent. "It'd only lead to a lot of unnecessary questions from you that I wouldn't answer. Now I know your reputation, Mrs Peel, so I'm not coming any closer to you. That chair is on castors, so what I want you to do is to slide it over into that clear space on your left, just under the window. I'm only here for the file and the sample. Where is the sample, by the way?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Emma told him. "As for sliding the chair, it's quite out of the question. My landlord would hate it if I scratched his beautiful varnished floor!"

The easy charm dropped like a cloak, revealing a professional ruthlessness. "Don't try my patience, Mrs Peel." He told her in a steely tone. "I don't want to hurt you, but this is far more important than you can possibly imagine. I will use this gun if you make it necessary."

It was at that point that the handle of Steed's umbrella hooked around the elbow of the mans' gun arm and yanked sharply backwards. The gun wavered wildly and Emma moved fast, kicking him hard in the kneecap. He went down with a yelp and a crash, rolled onto his back and found the sharp steel ferrule of Steeds' umbrella an inch from his right eye. He relaxed, grinning ruefully.

"John Steed." He said. "They told me Mrs Peel had a partner, they didn't say who! If I'd known, I'd have used a different approach."

"Captain Jack Harkness, as I live and breathe." Steed replied. "What's Torchwood doing here? Murders, even odd ones, aren't your field."

Harkness shrugged. "This murder is different, Steed. It's one of ours, and I'd like to handle it, if you don't mind."

He made to get up, but Steeds' umbrella didn't move, and he relapsed.

"I do mind, Captain." Steed said sternly. "We've had more than enough of Torchwoods' high-handedness, lately. I know about your condition, Captain, and I don't want to bring on another, er, attack.

"If Torchwood has a legitimate involvement in this case, then we will work on it together. But I need to know what your interest is!"

Harkness sighed. "Ok, but could you at least let me up? Or do you prefer me lying at your feet?"

"The thought does have a certain appeal." Emma admitted. "But it'll probably be easier if you let him up, Steed. I've got his gun, anyway."

Steed nodded. "Very well, but keep your hands where we can see them, Captain."

"Where's the fun in that?" Harkness asked as he climbed to his feet. Then he got down to business. "The oil you found in Graftings' study, I assume you've had it analysed?"

Steed nodded. "I have."

Harkness went on. "They told you that it's a vegetable oil, highly nutritious and lacking any harmful or potentially harmful chemicals or elements, right?"

"Perhaps." Steed was giving nothing away.

Harkness gave an impatient gesture. "They also told you that the oil comes from no known species, or even genus, of plant. That whatever it is doesn't seem to be related to any vegetable or plant known, that it's not a hybrid and that the whole thing looks too good to be true!"

"So you have someone listening at the lab." Steed replied. "That hardly inspires trust, Captain."

Harkness shook his head, taking a sheet of paper out of his pocket and extending it toward Emma. "No, Steed. I know all that because Torchwood got hold of another sample and did our own analysis days ago!

"But we have equipment nobody else does. Equipment that can analyse what we call DNA, the genes themselves. This plant, whatever it is, does not come from Earth!"

"How did you come by your sample?" Emma asked.

"Guy called Koslov." Harkness explained. "He's been hawking the stuff around, quietly. Says he needs a middleman to sell the plants on to one of the big companies."

"That fits with what's in the Professors' files." Emma told Steed.

"This Koslov is playing it close." Harkness put in. "He won't say a thing about what the plant is or how he came by it until he gets his money."

"Understandable." Steed said. "He doesn't want anyone duplicating his discovery."

"But that still leaves us wondering about who killed Grafting and his associate, how and why." Emma pointed out.

Harkness shrugged and spread his hands. "We're as much in the dark about that as you, Mrs Peel. Murders, as Steed pointed out, don't usually fall into our remit until all the other agencies are baffled."

"Well, according to the post-mortem our people did," Steed announced. "both men died from poisoning. A highly virulent, fast-acting vegetable poison apparently administered through those weals. Sort of like a nettle sting, only infinitely more venomous.

"One other thing. It seems that both men suffered severe damage to their optic nerves. It's difficult to tell whether it's from the venom or not, but both of them, had they lived, would have been stone blind."

"Interesting." Harkness mused. "Would there be any problem in letting my people have a look at the bodies?"

"Not as long as they report their findings to us." Steed assented. "In the meantime, we'll look into this Koslov chap and let you know what we find. If these plants are from somewhere else, then Torchwood is welcome to deal with them. Koslov, however, is definitely from Earth, and he belongs to us. Especially if he's our killer. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Harkness allowed. "For now, anyway. I'd better go see about getting my people a look at those bodies."

Emma handed him his revolver. He looked at it and grinned. "Now what's to stop me holding this on you two and taking that file anyway?" He asked.

"Only this." Emma told him, holding out her other hand.

Harkness' grin turned rueful as he looked at the six cartridges in her open palm. "For an amateur, Mrs Peel, you're pretty slick. What other tricks have you got up your sleeve, or anywhere else?"

"Wouldn't you like to know!" Emma told him. "Now run along, Captain, and stay in touch!"

Not at all abashed, Harkness left with a cheery wave. Emma turned to Steed. "Torchwood?" She asked.

Steed took off his bowler and hung it, with his umbrella, on the nearby stand. "The Torchwood Institute was founded by a decree of Queen Victoria in 1879." He told her. "Its charter was 'to defend the Empire against threats from beyond this world'. They mainly do that by supposedly finding and storing any items that are considered 'alien'.

"I say they're supposed to store them, but some of us think they actually experiment with them. Trying to make weapons we can use to defend ourselves if the flying saucer men ever do invade.

"Torchwood doesn't answer to the government, the UN, or anybody. Usually, they go about their own business and don't interfere with others. But if they come across something in another organisations' case they think is 'theirs', they can get a bit high-handed about taking the case over. Lately, they've been doing more of that. They've upset UNCLE, Nemesis, MI5, MI6 and that American lot, Project Bluebook, by ordering them off cases or just stealing evidence.

"I'm afraid, Mrs Peel, that I'm not inclined to take any more of their nonsense, and our employers feel the same way."

"Well," Emma said, "I do hope Captain Harkness has taken note."