The Recondite Riddle of the Rose Rogue

by Dawn Vogel

Dawn Vogel has been published as a short fiction author and an editor of both fiction and non-fiction. Her academic background is in history, so it’s not surprising that much of her fiction is set in earlier times. By day, she edits reports for historians and archaeologists. In her alleged spare time, she runs a craft business, helps edit Mad Scientist Journal, and tries to find time for writing. She lives in Seattle with her awesome husband (and fellow author), Jeremy Zimmerman, and their herd of cats. Visit her at http://historythatneverwas.com.

Chrysanthemum was the first to notice, as she often was. Some might have accused her of being a busybody, but she preferred to think of herself as observant. As the youngest daughter, at age eight, her job was to make minor repairs on the flowers and to mark any flowers in need of major repairs for Mother to take care of later. So Chrysanthemum had become familiar with most of the flowers and spent a considerable part of her day walking down paths, looking for anything that needed to be fixed.

As she passed through the rose garden at the heart of the greenhouse, she marveled that she had not seen any of Father's clockwork bees buzzing past her, heading for the prize of the collection, the jeweled roses. Dripping with gemstones that glittered like dewdrops, these exquisite flowers fetched an enormous price at the market. They were also very rare. The first five jeweled roses that Chrysanthemum's maternal grandfather, Leopold Brecht, had lovingly crafted and named after his five daughters, produced but a few new blooms each year. The "baby" roses could be sold, but the "mothers" remained protected in the mechanical garden.

The first rose had been crafted from scrap iron and yellow sapphires, the edges of the metal ground until they lost their jagged edges, and then the whole piece polished until it shone. It was the largest of the five, the prototype design from which Brecht had been able to gradually make the roses smaller and more refined. The second rose was all steel and rubies, the third rose of caesium with emeralds, the fourth rose made from bronze and garnets, and the fifth and most delicate rose of copper and amber.

But now Chrysanthemum saw only four of the large jeweled roses. Counting again, she identified the missing rose, the smallest of the "mothers." She immediately reached for her notebook and pocket watch. "9:37 a.m. Jeweled rose Leona is not in the rose garden," she wrote in a flowing cursive. She tucked away her notebook and brought her pinky fingers to her mouth, preparing to whistle for her older sister, Marigold (who was twelve and was nearly as clever as Chrysanthemum, or so the younger girl believed), when suddenly she gasped.

Near the edge of one of the paths, away from the center of the greenhouse, a bit of loose soil marred the tidy walkway. All the family members who tended the garden were fastidious about keeping the paths pristine. This confirmed her suspicion immediately.

Breaking into a run toward the cottage, she shouted, "Mother, Father, Leona has been stolen!"

"Ah-ah-choo!" Constable Lawrence sneezed again before blowing his nose loudly into his handkerchief. "Apologies, ma'am. I'm afraid that I'm dreadfully allergic to flowers."

"More accurately, you're allergic to the pollen," Marigold corrected him. She had begun studying the intricacies of the workings of the garden and considered herself an expert on the subject. "If you were allergic to the flowers, the ones we have here wouldn't bother you, because they're made of metal. But the pollen in them is just like that of natural flowers."

Constable Lawrence regarded the girl coolly. "You don't say."

"Come along, girls," Mother said as she turned to walk away from the rose garden. "Let's leave the constables to their business and get back to our own."

Marigold and Chrysanthemum shared a quiet look, then began to follow their mother. Within minutes, both had split off from the main path and looped around to meet up behind a large bush with gently clinking leaves. The bush was a perfect place for them to hide and watch the constables at work.

"I don't think they're going to find anything, Marigold," Chrysanthemum confided.

"You showed them the dirt, and they didn't even look at it twice," Marigold replied sadly.

From the other side of the bush, the female constable's voice resounded. "Wild place they've got here, don't ya think?" Constable Jefferson asked, smiling at her partner.

"Downright unnatural," Constable Lawrence replied. "How d'ya suppose it all works?" He peered intently at one of the large jeweled roses, which had closed itself up as though it were nighttime. Although the roses were not meant to be sensitive to such things, they often exhibited defense mechanisms, like hiding their brilliance in dangerous times.

Marigold leaned in closer to her sister's ear. "The roses are hiding. Do you think one of the constables could be the thief?"

"No," Chrysanthemum whispered a bit crossly. "I've read enough detective stories, and I'm fairly sure that anyone as inefficient as these two could not be the culprit. I'm a little chagrined that they are the only investigators that the precinct bothered to send. They're going to need our help, I think."

Marigold nodded. "You go look for tracks while you check on the flowers. I'll oil the pansies and stay near the rose garden. Give a call if you need any help."

Chrysanthemum whistled softly, mimicking the sound made by a yellow-bellied warbler.

"And they got mechanical birds, too!" Constable Jefferson exclaimed, flabbergasted.

Chrysanthemum walked slowly along the paths of the garden. She moved as quietly as she could, fearing that perhaps the thief had not yet left the premises. While she was certain that she knew enough to find evidence of how the thief had entered the greenhouse, she was not certain that she could escape if she found the brigand still lurking within the building. The mechanical garden was also a large enough place that if she called for help, her family might not be able to reach her quickly enough.

For nearly half an hour, she tiptoed around to various patches of flowers, looking both for damaged flowers and any sign of an incautious intruder. Not surprisingly, she found both in the same place. In the midst of the heliotropes, a large crushed patch showed evidence of having had a boot planted in the middle of it.

"Poor little thing," she murmured, as she looked closer at the ruined plant. The footprint was large, and the crumpled bits of the metallic plant were now embedded in the soil beneath it.

Scanning the area, Chrysanthemum felt like something was out of place, but she could not place it at first. She carefully enumerated the flowers located in this part of the garden. "Heliotropes, balloon flowers, nasturtiums, and clematis."

Then she paused as she noticed the broken edges of a clematis vine, and in it, she saw the thief's means of entry and escape—one of the window panels in the greenhouse had been removed. With a sigh, she whistled for Marigold.

Marigold watched the two constables with rapt attention as she went through the motions of oiling the flowers. Her chores were so regular that she barely needed to look at what she was doing, and still she did not spill a drop of oil. However, the longer she watched the constables looking at the flowers instead of looking for clues, the more her brow wrinkled and her mouth dropped into a frown.

"Pardon me," she finally said, pointing to a slight indentation at the edge of one of the paths. "I believe the thief may have gone this way. I think this is a shoe print."

Constable Jefferson looked in Marigold's direction and shook her head dismissively. "Don't be silly, girl. We have a good lead on where the thief would have gone."

"But don't you want to learn how he got into the greenhouse?"

"Not necessary," replied Constable Lawrence, speaking through his crumpled handkerchief. "All we need is to find your grandfather's creation and return it. And we have all of the evidence we need to do that. Please bid your mother good day."

A piercing whistle broke the calm of the greenhouse. Marigold forced her face into a tight smile before curtseying and turning her back. As soon as she was no longer facing the constables, she rolled her eyes. It was certainly a good thing that she and Chrysanthemum were on the case!

"What did you find?" Marigold asked as she reached Chrysanthemum's side, breathless.

"The thief destroyed this patch of heliotropes and ripped down some of the clematis, probably when he jumped through that panel," Chrysanthemum pointed glumly at the missing window. "Really, I'm a better detective than those two fools the precinct sent down, and I'm only eight years old."

Marigold patted her sister's arm gently. "That's right, Chrysie, you are."

"Now I've got to remove the crushed flowers and get Father to cut a new pane for the window," Chrysanthemum sighed. "At least the clematis is the new self-healing variety. Once we get the window pane back in place, it'll grow back in no time."

"Before Father repairs the crime scene, let's think about what we know," Marigold suggested.

"Oh yes, what we know," Chrysanthemum beamed for a moment. "The thief is a man, or a woman with very large feet. This crushed patch is nearly 10 inches long. I think it's a man who weighs a bit more than Father, because of how compressed the heliotropes are..."

"But he jumped through the window," Marigold interrupted.

"I've taken that into consideration. I still maintain that he is a heavier man."

"Good, go on then."

Chrysanthemum thought for a moment. "He knew what he was looking for. At night, with all of the flowers closed and all of the paths dark, he knew to go to the center of the garden and take one of the mother roses. That means he's been here before."

"Yes, that seems likely. But we have so many visitors to the garden every Saturday that it would be hard to say which of them might have decided to steal a rose."

"He would also need to have some sort of good connections, I would think," Chrysanthemum mused. "Everyone in Dover knows of Grandfather's creations. The constables apparently think that they'll find the missing rose at the flower market. But he wouldn't be able to sell it there. He would need to smuggle it out of the city to a place where no one would know who the real owner was."

"Do you think perhaps a rival inventor hired someone to steal the rose? Someone who wanted to take it apart and learn Grandfather's secrets?"

"That could be it! We can look in the guest register tonight to see if anyone suspicious has been to the garden recently."

"I'll hurry back to the cottage and tell Father about the missing pane," Marigold said as she moved toward the path. "And then I'll bring you a transplant pot for the heliotropes. Perhaps Mother can fix them."

"Cyril von Winter?" Marigold read.

"I think he works for the Mayor," Chrysanthemum mused.

"Severin Corvidus?"

"No, he was arrested two days after he visited."

"Adolphus Cromwell?"

"What are you girls playing at?" Father had put down his newspaper and regarded his two daughters.

"We're trying to find someone who has been to the garden recently and who might work for one of Grandfather's rivals."

Father laughed and raised his newspaper again. "Ah, my little detectives. Mother says the constables who visited today were not half as clever as the two of you."

Marigold and Chrysanthemum shared a puzzled glance.

"Do you think he believed us?" Marigold mouthed silently. Chrysanthemum shook her head.

"Adolphus Cromwell only looks suspicious. He's a very nice man. Who's next?" Chrysanthemum asked.

"Lucretia Wynter."

"Lucky Lucy! Sure, she's big enough that she could have made that footprint!"

Father chimed in, reading from the paper. "'Lucky Lucy Behind Bars.' Sorry girls, I think she's off your suspect list. By the way, what's this about a footprint?" Only his arched eyebrows and creased forehead were visible over the top of the paper.

"Whoever came in through that open pane left a 10-inch-long footprint in the heliotropes that crushed the blooms all the way to the soil," Chrysanthemum mumbled.

"Hmmm," Father replied.

"What, Father?" Marigold inquired, scrambling to his side.

"That sounds like a plain sneak thief, not an inventor's assistant. And I only know one inventor who would hire someone like that. Doctor Dieter Nyx."

"But if he hired a sneak thief, it could be anyone in the register," Chrysanthemum wailed. "We need something more if we're going to track down the culprit."

"I have just the thing," Father said with a smile.

Father, Marigold, and Chrysanthemum clustered around the jeweled roses. Marigold held the oil can while Chrysanthemum held a small jar filled with pollen and a paintbrush and looked skeptically at Father. "You're sure this will work?"

"It's worth a shot, I think." He shrugged slightly. "Marigold does such a good job with oiling these beauties that they're difficult to get a good grasp on while wearing gloves. Anyway, if it doesn't reveal any fingerprints, it will at least be a new experiment to see if we can cross-pollinate the jeweled ladies and create something a bit hardier."

Marigold gingerly inserted the tip of the oil can into one of the tightly closed jeweled roses. The petals clinked softly and separated far enough to accept the oil that dribbled out. Chrysanthemum quickly brushed a pollen-laden stroke across the expanded petals and gasped as the whorls of fingerprints became visible against the dark exterior of the jeweled rose.

Father leaned in carefully with a piece of adhesive cellophane and pressed it to the side of the rose. Then he put the cellophane onto a dark sheet of paper. "There we are. We'll take that to the precinct tomorrow and give it to one of the men I know there. And then I'll give him a piece of my mind about those lousy constables that came by earlier today. Shall we see what the rest of them reveal?"

The next morning, Marigold and Chrysanthemum were up early, both girls dressed in their Sunday best. When they arrived at the breakfast table, they found a note from their father between their places.

Dearest flowers,

I've been called to the city early today. Take the fingerprints and call on Inspector Gaspard Greymoor at the precinct. Give him my calling card and tell him what you know. You are both so clever and charming that I'm certain he will help you.

All of my love,

Father

"We're on our own," Marigold announced.

"Oh dear," Chrysanthemum moaned.

"We'll be fine, Chrysie. The precinct isn't too much farther than the church. I know the way."

"But do you think the inspector will really help us?"

"If Father says he will, then I'm sure he will. Come along, it will be an adventure!"

The precinct house was much larger than Marigold remembered, but she did know exactly where it was. The girls stood on the front steps, holding hands. In their free hands, Marigold clutched their father's calling card, and Chrysanthemum clutched the sheets of fingerprints that they had recovered from two of the jeweled roses. After a few moments, a window to the right of the stairs opened, and a ginger-haired young man stuck his head out. "Well come on in, girls! Can't have you standing on the steps all day!"

The Marsh sisters looked at each other and scurried up the stairs, heading to the right as soon as they located a hallway. The ginger-haired man leaned against a doorframe, his arms crossed.

"So what are you here for? Murder, arson, robbery?"

"Robbery," Marigold responded.

The young man blinked, then grinned slyly. "Turning yourselves in, are you?"

"No! We're investigating a robbery. That is, we need help investigating a robbery. We need Inspector Gaspard Greymoor."

"Well then, you've come to the right place." The young man bowed deeply, then eyed the girls carefully. "You're Doctor Marsh's daughters?"

Chrysanthemum's eyes widened. "Yes, I'm Chrysanthemum Marsh, and this is my sister Marigold Marsh. But how did you know?"

"Your sister's carrying his card," Inspector Greymoor said, stepping into his office.

Again the sisters shared a long glance, but they followed the young inspector into his office. He was already seated behind the desk, his legs outstretched across one corner. Pulling a small notepad from his breast pocket, he regarded the girls with a serious expression. "What do you have for me?"

Chrysanthemum spoke up immediately. "We found a pane of glass taken out of the greenhouse wall. Father said it was done with precision tools. We found a footprint in the garden, about 10 inches long and made by a man a bit heavier than you or Father. And Father helped us lift these sets of fingerprints from the roses."

"How do you know the fingerprints didn't come from one of your family?"

"It's my job to keep the jeweled roses shining," Marigold stated proudly. "I'm sure that I polished them on Tuesday, before Leona was stolen."

"Well, we can at least hope that the constables kept their hands off of the flowers," he muttered. "May I see the prints?"

Chrysanthemum presented him with the sheets of paper, and Inspector Greymoor examined them quietly for several long minutes.

"Well that doesn't seem right," he finally said. "I know these prints. Know 'em almost as well as I know my own. See that little ridge there?" He tapped one of the sheets in front of him.

Rising from his desk, he moved to a cabinet near the wall. As he rummaged through the drawers, he continued explaining. "Couple years back, we had a case where we had to go through every inch of a mansion, taking prints from everything. So we ended up with a lot of the prints of the master of the house."

Withdrawing another sheet of paper from the cabinet, he set it on his desk alongside the prints that the girls had brought, and regarded them seriously. "Those fingerprints belong to Sir Percy Wilde, Viscount of Caerden."

Both girls gasped in unison, looking at the official set of fingerprints that Inspector Greymoor had placed alongside the amateur version that Father had taken.

"But why would a Viscount steal from us?" Chrysanthemum asked.

"Now hold on, Miss Chrysanthemum," Inspector Greymoor replied. "You can't simply accuse someone like Mr. Wilde of a crime like this."

"But if his fingerprints are on the rose, then he's a suspect," Marigold insisted. "Even if he had visited the garden this past Saturday, which he most certainly did not, I've cleaned the roses three times since then. Surely you can't think that I'm so careless in my chores to have neglected the prize of our collection for so long."

Inspector Greymoor looked at the two girls solemnly. "I know your father well, and I'm sure that he didn't raise dishonest daughters. I do believe you, Miss Marigold, but my hands are tied at the moment. Unless your father or grandfather is willing to bring formal charges against Mr. Wilde, we would have great difficulty in investigating this case. And to bring formal charges against a Viscount? Well, that could bode poorly for your family if the accusations turn out to be unfounded. And truly, I cannot fathom any reason why he would steal something of this sort. His wealth is great enough that he could offer your family quite a handsome price for this trinket."

"Grandfather would never sell it to him," Marigold said.

"You're right, he wouldn't," Chrysanthemum began, and then she gasped. "He even told Mr. Wilde that he would not part with a single one of the jeweled roses at any price!"

"Did he now?" asked Inspector Greymoor.

"Yes," Chrysanthemum insisted. "I remember hearing Grandfather talking to Mother late one evening. The one that Mr. Wilde wanted to purchase was Leona—that's our mother's namesake rose. And Grandfather said that he would never part with a single one of the roses, but especially not his eldest girl."

Inspector Greymoor considered Chrysanthemum carefully, then turned back to the fingerprints. Marigold hesitated, beginning to speak a few times before finally taking a deep breath and speaking. "Father said that the clumsy landing could mean that it was just a common sneak thief who entered the greenhouse. Is it possible that someone could have simulated Mr. Wilde's fingerprints in order to shift the blame?"

Inspector Greymoor pursed his lips in thought. "We've not seen anything of the sort yet, but it's certainly possible. So many things are possible with the right application of technology. And shifting the blame to someone so prominent is sure to muck up any investigation—the thief may have realized that."

"I've heard of a few doctors working on that sort of technology," Chrysanthemum mused, trying to remember more details. "They say that they will be able to replace the skin on burn victims, but it does seem as though such things would have other applications as well."

"Very good," Inspector Greymoor applauded. "You are quite the little mind, Chrysanthemum. Could you make me a list of doctors?"

"I couldn't without my notebook," she admitted shyly. "I left it at home today."

"Then let's return to your house," Inspector Greymoor said brightly, tucking all of the fingerprints into a satchel and rising from his desk to don his coat and hat. "I'd like to have a word with your grandfather, and then I'll take your list and start questioning some of the doctors."

The girls followed Inspector Greymoor from his office into the hallway, where they passed the two constables who had been at the greenhouse the previous day.

"Ah, just the constables I was looking for," the young inspector exclaimed. "Constables, you investigated at Marsh Gardens yesterday, did you not?"

"Indeed," Constable Lawrence replied glumly, "and I have a head cold today to show for it."

"Well then grab an extra handkerchief, my man," Inspector Greymoor chortled. "We have need to go back to the garden to speak with the elder Doctor Marsh, and I need the two of you to continue your investigation."

Marigold and Chrysanthemum rolled their eyes at one another, but the rules of decorum said that they had best not contradict the inspector's orders.

The next day, Inspector Greymoor called again at the Marsh cottage to retrieve the two girls. Marigold answered the door, and Chrysanthemum hurried to join her, a list of names clutched in one hand while she pulled on her coat with the other.

"Let's see here," the inspector said, reviewing the list of names. "Ah, just three names?"

"Yes," Chrysanthemum nodded sagely. "There are a few others who have dabbled in such things, but they haven't had any appreciable results yet. At least no appreciable results that have been reported by the newspapers or scientific journals."

"You read the scientific journals?"

Marigold rolled her eyes. "She reads everything she can get her hands on!"

"Well I'd say that's a habit she should keep on with," Inspector Greymoor laughed aloud. "We've got three leads because of it! We'll start with Doctor Hellmer, he's the closest. Then Doctor Jones and Doctor Carter, and I'll have you home in time for tea!"

Marigold and Chrysanthemum trudged along a few paces behind Inspector Greymoor, who whistled as he walked along the sidewalk, tipping his hat graciously to every person he passed.

"The one reason I want to grow up before I become a detective is so that I'll have longer legs and won't get so tired from walking everywhere," Chrysanthemum gasped.

"That seems like a good idea," Marigold agreed, "but my legs are at least five inches longer than yours, and it's not helping any."

"Almost there, girls," the inspector called out as he regarded them. "And then we'll be done for the day. Perhaps we can even take a cabriolet back to the garden. Of course, if we have to take any suspects in, we'll have to take the wagon to the station and then a cab home."

Both girls quickened their pace, excited by the thought of getting to take a fancy cabriolet, or even to ride on the police wagon. They caught up to Inspector Greymoor in no time, as he approached the door of a handsomely appointed house.

The maid who opened the door resembled a mouse, only peeking her nose and eyes out from behind the door. Her eyes darted back and forth between the inspector and the girls. "Can I help ya?"

"We're looking for the master of the house, please. Doctor Carter," the inspector said smoothly.

"Come in, then. He'll be down in a moment."

Marigold and Chrysanthemum followed the inspector into the house, both with eyes as wide as saucers as they took in all of the taxidermy animals mounted on the walls.

"Do you think he could take real skin from people and remold the fingerprints?" Marigold asked in hushed tones.

"Hardly, my dear," an elderly man replied. The girls spun to see Doctor Carter, who had walked up behind them as they gaped at the décor. "I am skilled in the arts of taxidermy, true, but I only practice such arts on lesser creatures. Inspector, what can I do for you and your... assistants?"

"Doctor Carter, thank you. We're investigating the possibility of gloves that so resemble a human hand that they even have fingerprints. Is such a thing within your capacity?"

"Yes, I just finished the prototype last week. I'm rather surprised you didn't know, Inspector. The constables who picked it up said they would take it straight to you."

Inspector Greymoor furrowed his brow and pinched the top of his nose. "Constables? What were their names?"

"Ah, I don't recall, I'm afraid. Both middle-aged, one a man and the other a woman."

"There's only one woman constable on the force right now," the inspector replied glumly. Turning to the girls, he apologized. "I'm sorry that I sent the worst of the constables to your greenhouse. Even worse, I'm sorry that I sent the thieves back to the scene of the crime. It's no wonder that both of them were ill today. Said it was the flowers, but I think they're bluffing. Can the two of you stand a bit more legwork today?"

Marigold nodded slowly, but Chrysanthemum was reinvigorated. As they turned to leave, the younger girl rushed to Doctor Carter's side to shake his hand. "It's a pleasure, sir. I'm a real admirer of your articles in World of Anatomy."

The doctor smiled and shook Chrysanthemum's hand vigorously. "Well, dearie, I'm glad that I could help."

Half an hour later, Marigold and Chrysanthemum browsed the flower market. While both girls seemed to have their entire attention focused on the wares in the stalls, they took turns casting glances around the rest of the square, on the lookout for Constables Jefferson and Lawrence.

Finally, Chrysanthemum spotted a woman who looked like Constable Jefferson. Her hair was styled differently, and she cut a new figure in a gown rather than her police uniform, but the girl was certain that she had spotted the villainess. She nudged Marigold gently and inclined her head in Constable Jefferson's direction before returning to browsing the nearest stall.

Marigold hazarded a quick glance in the direction that her younger sister had indicated and tried to conceal her surprise. The woman constable carried a basket covered with a plain cloth, but Marigold could very nearly make out the shape of the rose beneath the cloth. She shot a quick glance toward the window that Inspector Greymoor said he would be watching from and was rewarded with a quick glint of light off the inspector's badge. The officers were all in place, and their net was nearly ready to drop.

Marigold squeezed her sister's hand for luck and then scurried toward the center of the square, head tucked low. She brushed past Constable Jefferson a bit more forcefully than necessary, and as she did, she tugged the cloth off the basket, revealing the gleaming copper and amber rose, Leona.

Constable Jefferson gasped loudly and looked down at Marigold. "You!" she exclaimed, looking around frantically. All around the square, Inspector Greymoor's loyal officers moved to block every exit. The inspector himself swung down from his high perch, looking every bit the picture of a gallant swashbuckler.

"Polly, really. Did you think you could sell the rose here?"

"You'd be surprised how many people are willing to buy such a hot commodity."

"Not really," the inspector replied. "Chrysanthemum and Marigold have given me a list of everyone who has ever approached their grandfather asking to buy one of his roses. We'll keep a close eye on each of them, not that this will be any concern of yours or Henry's, not where you're going." Waving a hand, he turned and walked away.

As one of the other officers placed handcuffs on Polly Jefferson's wrists, she called out. "Don't think that those lovely roses will be safe, even after you take me in and return this one."

"Oh, I'm not too worried about that," Inspector Greymoor laughed and winked at the girls. "After all, I've got the two best junior detectives in all of Dover living just a stone's throw from that part of the mechanical garden."