If those bees attack my uncle one more time, the old keeper will be dragged away in chains for treason, my cousin whispered as we stood on the portico of Elmwood Manor.
Marcus Crane, already dictating a frantic telegram to the clerk, was a whirlwind of journalistic zeal. “Hold the presses! This is bigger than Gettysburg!” he shouted into the telegraph machine.
I left him to his work, a renewed sense of purpose fueling my tired legs. I had done my part. Now, I needed to get back to Elmwood.
I hurried back, the sun just peeking over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The storm had passed, leaving everything glistening and fresh.
As I approached the manor, I noticed a strange, acrid smell mingling with the damp earth. It was coming from the direction of the abandoned greenhouse.
My stomach clenched. What was Julian doing now?
I pushed through the overgrown boxwood hedges, my heart hammering. The greenhouse looked like a shattered jewel, its glass panes reflecting the nascent light.
Inside, Julian Montgomery was a frantic figure, a jug of what looked like lye clutched in his hand. He was pouring the caustic liquid onto the soil where the Monkshood plants had been. His face was streaked with sweat and fear.
He was desperately trying to destroy the evidence before investigators arrived.
“Julian!” I yelled, stepping inside. The air was thick with the smell of lye and disturbed earth.
He spun around, his eyes wide with panic. He dropped the jug, which shattered on the damp soil, sending a splash of corrosive liquid.
In his haste, Julian stumbled backward, knocking into a shelf filled with earthenware pots. The shelf swayed precariously.
Two large, ceramic pots toppled, crashing to the ground. From inside them, a furious, indignant buzzing erupted.
They were active observation hives. Ebenezer must have moved them inside for shelter during the storm, a last-ditch effort to save some of his precious bees.
Thousands of furious honeybees, their buzzing a deafening roar, erupted from the broken hives. They swarmed, instantly agitated by the lye fumes and the destruction of their homes.
And they knew Julian. The scent of Monkshood still clung to him, a beacon of aggression.
The bees converged, a living, stinging cloud, instantly finding their target. Julian screamed, a high-pitched, terrified sound, batting wildly at the air.
He stumbled backward further, trying to escape, but the swarm pushed him against the rusted iron glass frame of the greenhouse. His hands flew to his face, covering his head, but the bees were relentless.
He was pinned, trapped in the very glasshouse where he had cultivated his poison. His screams grew hoarser, swallowed by the furious drone of the swarm.
I could hear the shouts of guards approaching from the manor, alerted by Julian’s cries. The cavalry was coming, but for Julian, it was too late. He was already caught in nature’s justice.
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