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to dehydration.
    ‘The Angel’s Footstep,’ the uncle repeated. ‘So named because it is said of angels that, like Christ, they can walk upon water. But only when the moon is full and only upon its reflection.’
    ‘And the leaves are poisonous,’ said the Doveston.
    ‘Extremely,’ the uncle agreed. ‘Eat one of those and you’ll join the angels. Oh my, yes indeed.’
    ‘I think I might join the angels any minute if I don’t have something to drink,’ I said.
    The uncle’s eyes fficked over me. ‘Put the bucket down,’ he said kindly. ‘There’s a water tap over in the corner there and a metal cup on a chain. Don’t touch anything else, or smell anything, all right?’
    ‘All right, sir,’ I said.
    Being a resilient lad, who had already survived diphtheria and whooping cough and phossy jaw and Bengal rot, I wasn’t going to let a bit of dehydration get me down too much. And so, having revived myself with a pint or two of Adam’s ale, I was once more fit as a fiddle and fresh as a furtler’s flute.
    ‘All right now?’ asked the uncle.
    ‘Yes, thank you,’ said I.
    ‘Then let me show you these.’
    The uncle drew my attention to a tub of plants. Deep green leaves they had, which spread in a flat rosette, interlaced with violet—tinged flowers.
‘Mandragora officinarum,’
he said. ‘The now legendary mandrake. Beneath the surface of the soil its root is the shape of a man. This is
the
witch plant, used in many magical ceremonies. It is said that when pulled from the ground it screams and that the scream will drive the hearer mad. Should we give it a little tug, do you think?’
    I shook my head with vigour.
    ‘No.’ The uncle nodded. ‘Best not, eh? The roots in fact contain a tropane alkaloid which taken in small doses can induce hallucinations and visions of paradise. In large doses however, they induce—’
    ‘Death,’ said the Doveston.
    ‘Death,’ said the uncle. ‘It was very popular with Lucrezia Borgia. But three hundred years ago the Persians used it as a surgical anaesthetic.’
    ‘They dried the root,’ said the Doveston, ‘ground it and mixed it with camphor, then boiled it in water. You sniffed the steam. The Romans originally brought it to England.’
    ‘Your brother knows his stuff,’ said the uncle, patting his prodigy’s head and then examining his fingers for cooties.
    I was given the full guided tour. Uncle Jon Peru Joans showed me his poppies. ‘From which opium is distilled.’ His
Cannabis sativa.
‘Indian hemp, beloved of beatniks.’ His Menispermaceae. ‘A member of the South American moonseed family, from which the arrow-head toxin, curare, is obtained.’ And his
Lophophora williamsii.
‘Peyote. O wondrous peyote.’
    We took in the monkshood and mugwort, the henbane and hellebores, samphire and the scurvy grass, toadflax and toxibelle. I didn’t touch or smell anything.
    It seemed clear to me that the uncle’s collection consisted entirely of plants which either got you high or put you under. Or were capable of doing both, depending on the dose.
    As I watched the weedy man with the weirdy eyes, I wondered just how many of these narcotics he had personally sampled.
    ‘And that’s the lot,’ he said finally. ‘Except for the beautiful boys you’ve come to see and I’ll show you those in a minute.’
    I plucked distractedly at my shorts. My Y-fronts, ever crusty, were filling up with sweat and swelling to embarrassing proportions. ‘It’s all incredible, sir,’ I said. ‘But might I ask you a question?’
    Uncle Jon Peru Joans inclined his pigeon-eggy head.
    ‘Why exactly have you chosen to cultivate these particular varieties of plants?’
    ‘For the Great Work,’ said the Doveston.
    ‘For the Great Work,’ the uncle agreed.
    I made the face that says ‘eh?’
    The uncle tapped his slender nose with a long and slender finger. ‘Come’, said he, ‘and meet my boys, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
    A corner of the conservatory