Wilde seemed to Charlotte to be lost in rapt contemplation of the way that the stems wound around the long bones, holding the skeleton together even though every vestige of flesh had been consumed. The plant had no roots but had supportive structures like holdfasts, which maintained the shape of the whole organism and the coherence of the skeleton too.

Charlotte knew that all this could not be mere accident; the winding of the stems had been carefully programmed for exactly this purpose. The skull, in particular, was very strikingly embellished, with a single stem emerging from each of the empty eye sockets. Charlotte knew well enough what level of genius this meticulous design implied—and what level of insanity.

“Can you be certain that it’s Gabriel?” asked Oscar finally.

“Absolutely certain.” Hal sounded strangely remote; the tape was still playing and he was reduced to the status of a mere voice-over.

“Do you know when he died?” “Yes—it’s all on camera. I suppose we’re lucky that he never made it back to the bedroom. The metamorphosis happened very quickly. It appears that the seeds of that plant devoured him as they grew, transforming his flesh into its own.” “Quite remarkable,” said Oscar Wilde. He said it very lightly, but the understatement must have been carefully calculated. “How did the seeds get into him—or onto him?” “We don’t know. We’re trying to trace his last visitor, of course, but it’s conceivable that the seeds might have been lying dormant in his body for some time.” “Fascinating,” Wilde opined, in a tone which seemed to have more admiration in it than horror.

“Fascinating!” Charlotte echoed in exasperation. “Wouldn’t you say it was a little more than merely fascinating, Dr. Wilde? Can you imagine what an organism like that might do if it ever got loose? We’re looking at something that could wipe out the entire human race.” “Perhaps,” said Wilde calmly, “but I think not. How long ago did he die?” “Between two and three days,” Hal told him, swiftly excluding Charlotte from the conversation yet again.

“He seems to have felt the first symptoms about seventy hours ago; he was incapacitated soon afterward and died a few hours later.” Oscar Wilde licked his full lips, as if to savor his own astonishment. “Those delightful flowers must have a voracious appetite,” he said.

Charlotte eyed him carefully, wondering exactly what his reaction might signify.

“I don’t have to explain to you how serious this matter is, Dr. Wilde,” Hal said. “Quite apart from the fact that the man must have been deliberately infected, the laws regarding the creation of artificial organisms hazardous to human life have clearly been breached. We need your help to find the maker of those flowers. Incidentally, do you happen to recognize the other flowers—the ones in the vase?” “Indeed I do,” the designer replied. “They’re mine—my newest line. I’m rather proud of them; I never suspected that Gabriel had such good taste. You realize, of course, that the flowers which have replaced poor Gabriel’s flesh are similar to mine in that they’re single-sexed flowers from a dioecious species? They’re all female, incapable of producing fertile seed. Our murderer isn’t as reckless as he may seem.” OUR murderer! Charlotte echoed silently. This investigation is becoming ridiculously crowded.

“Could you make plants like those, Dr. Wilde?” Hal asked insouciantly.

Oscar Wilde glanced sideways to meet Charlotte’s inquisitive gaze. She was at least six centimeters shorter than he, but she attempted to look at him as if their stares were perfectly level, trying with all her might to deny him the psychological advantage. He frowned slightly as he appeared to consider the question. Then he said: “It all depends what you mean by ‘like,’ Inspector Watson.” He was still looking at Charlotte.

“Don’t play games with me, Dr. Wilde,” Hal retorted. “Just answer the question.” “I’m sorry,” Wilde said silkily, his eyebrows arching slightly as he invited Charlotte to join him in a conspiracy of sympathy. “I meant no offense. I assume that you’re asking whether I could make a plant which would do what this one has apparently done—grow in the flesh of a human being, utterly consuming everything but the bones. I believe that I could, although I assure you that I never have and never would.” “And how many other people could do it?” Hal wanted to know.

“You’re going too fast, Inspector Watson. I was about to continue by saying that although I—and many other men—could design a plant to do what this one has done, I must confess that I could not have designed this plant. I could not have designed an organism to work with such astonishing speed and such amazing precision. Until I saw this marvel I would have judged that no man could. This is work of a quality that the world has never seen before, and I am eaten up by envy of the genius which produced it.” “You’re saying that you know of no one who could have done this?” Hal said.

Although he was invisible, the impatience in his voice made it obvious that he was skeptical.

“Had you asked me yesterday whether this were possible,” Wilde stated punctiliously, “I would have said no. Clearly, I have underrated one of my peers.” Charlotte stared hard at the uncannily beautiful Oscar Wilde, trying hard to weigh him up. She wondered whether anyone in the world were capable of committing a crime like this and then turning up in person to confront and mock the officers investigating it. It seemed difficult to believe that anyone who looked so young and so perfect could be guilty of anything, but she knew that his apparent youth and apparent perfection were both products of ingenious technology. Wilde was not a man who could be judged by appearances—and those of his appearances that were entirely under his own control announced clearly enough that he was a man who loved artifice and ostentation.

Charlotte decided that if Oscar Wilde could be guilty of the primary madness of planning and committing a crime such as this, the secondary madness of revisiting the scene while it was still under the supervision of investigating officers might easily be within his compass.

“Someone clearly has the required technical expertise to do this, Dr. Wilde,” she said stiffly, to lend unnecessary support to Hal’s patient inquisition.

Oscar Wilde shook his luxuriantly furnished head slowly. He did seem genuinely perplexed, even though the apparent level of his concern for the victim and for the fact that a serious biohazard had been let loose left much to be desired.

“The technical expertise, my dear Charlotte, is only a part of it,” he said. “I might be able to cultivate the relevant technical expertise, were I to attempt such a thing. Perhaps a dozen others might have been able to do it, had they been prepared to put in the time and effort. But what kind of man would devote his energies to such a project for months on end? Who has a reason for doing this kind of work with this degree of intricacy? I confess that I am deeply intrigued by the sheer demonic artistry of the organism.” “I really don’t think that matters of demonic artistry are important here, Dr.

Wilde,” said Charlotte, taking sarcastic advantage of Hal’s continued silence.

“This is murder.” “True,” admitted the green-eyed man. “And yet—a great genetic artist is every bit as distinctive in his work as a great painter. Perhaps we might learn as much from the style of the creation as from its evident purpose. My presence here suggests that some such judgment is required. It seems—does it not?—that the UN Police Department was not alone in requiring my presence as an expert witness.” “What do you mean?” Charlotte asked warily.

“Given that it seems to be impossible that I was summoned here by the victim,” Wilde said, as though it were perfectly obvious, “I can only conclude that I was summoned by the murderer.” As if to provide a dramatic counterpart to this remarkable statement, the tape that was running on the wallscreen was abruptly switched off. Hal Watson’s face reappeared in its stead. “I find that hard to believe, Dr. Wilde,” Hal said, reclaiming the interrogation.