Why Our Greenhouse Is Always Locked (And Who Has the Key)

Visitors often ask to see the Apothecary greenhouse. Visitors are always told that it is locked. This post explains why, and who is responsible. The answer to the second question is more complicated than the first.

The greenhouse

Our greenhouse sits at the end of a narrow garden path behind the shop. It is a lovely structure, with glass walls, a small fountain, and forty trays of seedlings. It is also, we admit, a trap. It is warm, sunny, full of soil and fragrant with growing catnip. Any cat who enters will not leave until sunset, and some will not leave at all.

The first lock

The first lock was installed in spring. It was a small brass padlock. It was opened within four days by a cat named Marmalade, who learned to press the shackle with her nose. She was commended for ingenuity and then moved to the front counter, where she is now responsible for opening nothing.

The second lock

The second lock was a combination lock. The code was written on a card and kept in a drawer. The card was sat on, then chewed, then used as a toy. The code is now unknown. The lock remains closed, and the greenhouse with it, which many staff consider a relief.

The key

The current lock takes a key. There is one key. It was last seen on Tuesday, on the counter, near Herbert. Herbert has been asked to present himself for a gentle inspection. He declined. He declined at length, loudly, from inside a flowerpot.

Possible locations of the key

• In Herbert, a theory which our staff do not wish to test
• Under the counter, in the space known as The Gap
• In the compost, where it was buried by Hyssop for reasons she calls ‘future planning’
• In the pocket of Dr Whiskerton, who has been wearing his coat for five days

What happens next

We have ordered a new lock. A new lock will mean a new key. A new key will mean a new cat to lose it. This is the natural cycle of an apothecary. Until then, the greenhouse will stay locked. The seedlings are said to be thriving. We have no way to check. We hear them, faintly, growing, and we can only assume they are fine.