Garden of Lies (18 page)

T
his dreadful creature is trying to blackmail me,” Ursula said. She gave Otford a disgusted look. “I came here today to stop him.”

“You were going to shoot me.” Otford stared at her in shocked disbelief. “In cold blood. How could you do such a thing?”

Otford was in his late thirties. He had pale blue eyes, lank, reddish-blond hair and a ruddy complexion. His clothes had seen better days. The sleeves of his coat and the cuffs of his trousers were frayed. His shirt had once been white but it was now a dingy shade of yellow. Threads dangled from his limp tie.

Otford was not a career criminal, Slater concluded, rather, a desperate man. Such individuals might be inept but that did not make them any less dangerous.

“I wasn't going to shoot you—well, not unless I was left with no alternative,” Ursula said. “I merely wished to discover your identity.”

Otford eyed her with grim suspicion. “Why did you want to learn my name unless you intended to kill me?”

“So that I could go to the police, of course,” Ursula said. She gave Otford a steely smile. “I'm quite certain that a man who would stoop so low as to blackmail a lady would have a few secrets of his own he'd want to keep hidden.”

Slater looked at Griffith, who was watching Ursula with undisguised admiration. Slater was not entirely certain how he, himself, felt about the situation. He was still trying to cope with the knowledge that Ursula had found it necessary to own a gun. He had never met a lady who carried one. Granted, it was a very small handgun but at close range it was a potentially deadly weapon. And to think that he had begun to believe that he knew Ursula well enough not to be surprised by anything she did. He had been very much mistaken.

“Well, I've got news for you, Mrs. Kern, I don't have any secrets to conceal.” Otford straightened his thin shoulders. “I'm a journalist.”

Ursula ignored that. “You recognized me from the trial, didn't you? I remember your face in the crowd. You sat right in front every single day like a vulture waiting to tear apart dead meat.”

“I covered the Picton divorce trial, yes.” Otford raised his chin. “It was my duty as a journalist.”

“Rubbish. You were one of the so-called gentlemen of the press who ruined my good name and made it necessary for me to adopt a new identity. I very nearly ended up in the workhouse or on the street because of you, Mr. Otford. And now you have the nerve to try to blackmail me?”

“I asked for only a couple of pounds,” Otford shot back. He waved a hand at her gown and hat. “It looks like you've done quite well for yourself, madam. Whereas I am the one in danger of starving. I'm going to be thrown out of my lodgings at the end of the week if I don't come up with the rent. I've been eating at a charity kitchen for the past month.”

“But you've got a job.” Ursula narrowed her eyes. “Have you become a gambler, sir? Is that why you are going hungry?”

Otford exhaled deeply. His shoulders collapsed. “No, I haven't fallen prey to the vice of gambling. My editor let me go. He said I hadn't brought in anything the public actually wanted to read in months. Not earning my keep, he told me. I'm working on a plan to publish a weekly magazine that covers the news of the criminal class and the police but setting up in that business takes money.”

“So you decided to try to extort money from me,” Ursula said. “Who else are you blackmailing, Mr. Otford?”

Otford was clearly offended. “I don't intend to make a career out of extortion, madam. It was just a little something to tide me over.”

“It's been two years since the Picton trial,” Ursula said. “I took great pains to disappear. How did you find me?”

A flash of intuition crackled through Slater.

“That,” he said, “is a very good question.” He took Ursula's arm and nodded to Griffith, who clamped a hand around Otford's shoulder. “I suggest we retire to another location to discuss the answer. There's no reason to stand out here in the street.”

S
later took them all back to his house, sat them down in the library and then asked Mrs. Webster to bring in a tea tray. She had sized up the situation immediately. A tray piled high with sandwiches and small cakes sat on a table in the center of the room.

Otford had very nearly come to tears when he saw the sandwiches. He had fallen upon them with the appetite of a man who had not eaten well in days. Griffith had not been shy, either. He had loaded up a small plate with several sandwiches and a couple of lemon tarts.

Slater leaned back against his desk, folded his arms and watched Ursula. He was starting to worry about her. She showed no interest in the food and very little in the strong, fortifying tea. She had been in a fine fury a short time ago but now she sat tensely in her chair. He got the feeling that she was bracing herself for complete disaster.

“Ursula,” he said gently, “it's going to be all right.”

She looked up with a slightly dazed expression. Her thoughts had clearly been elsewhere. But abruptly she focused on him.

“How did you know where I was this afternoon?” she asked, clearly suspicious.

“I went to your house to see you. I had some news to share with you. Mrs. Dunstan told me that you had gone haring off to Wickford Lane to see a new client. She seemed to think it was unlikely that anyone in that neighborhood would be in the market for a fashionable stenographer.”

“I see.”

“Ursula, she was worried about you.”

Ursula ignored that. “What was this news you had for me?”

“They found Rosemont's body in an alley near the docks this morning.”

“What?”
Ursula had been about to take another sip of tea. She set the cup down so quickly that some of the contents splashed into the saucer. “He's dead?”

“And not by accident,” Slater said. “He was murdered.”

“Good heavens,” Ursula said.

“Murder?” Otford asked around a mouthful of sandwich. His eyes widened. “What's this? Who is Rosemont?”

“A recently deceased purveyor of perfumes,” Slater said.

“Oh.” Otford lost interest and selected another sandwich. “No one of note then.”

Slater turned back to Ursula. “I talked to the police. The detective in charge of the case was kind enough to give me some information.”

“Well, of course the police would pay attention to you,” Ursula said grimly. “You're Slater Roxton.”

Slater pretended not to hear that. “I'm told Rosemont's death looks like the work of a professional assassin. Stiletto in the back of the neck.”

She blinked and then a speculative look appeared in her eyes. She was not the only one paying attention. Otford actually stopped munching again.

“What's this about a professional assassin?” Otford gulped down a bite of sandwich and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He whipped out a small notebook and a pencil. “Stiletto, you say? Makes all the difference if there's a professional villain involved, you see, not your average run-of-the-mill member of the criminal class. My editor might be interested. I can see the headline now,
Assassin Stalks London Streets
.”

Slater held up a hand. “You are not going to your editor, Otford, not yet at any rate. There is an even bigger story here and you can have an exclusive report if you do what I tell you.”

Otford stopped writing. “A bigger story? Any chance of a whiff of scandal? Readers prefer thrilling news, you see.”

“You cater to such a discerning audience, Mr. Otford.” Ursula gave him a chilly smile. “You must be very proud.”

Otford glared. “I have a responsibility to the public, madam.”

“What about a responsibility to the truth, Mr. Otford?”

“Now, see here, that little incident in the cemetery does not make me a villain, madam.”

“I disagree,” Ursula snapped.

Slater decided to step in before the situation deteriorated further.

“Let's try to stay on topic,” he said. “I think there is a strong probability that the assassin will attempt to murder someone else and quite soon.”

“Indeed?” Otford brightened.

“Mr. Otford, I think I can safely promise you a story that will help you launch a career as a publisher of one of the most popular weekly crime-reporting magazines in London.” Slater paused a beat before adding softly, “What is more, if you assist us in this investigation, I will help you finance your project.”

Otford looked dazzled. “You would back me financially, sir?”

“Yes, because I think you can be helpful to us.”

“I will do my best, sir. Count on me, Mr. Roxton.”

Ursula raised her eyes to the ceiling and drank some tea.

“In exchange for your assistance in the investigation that Mrs. Kern and I are conducting,” Slater continued, “I will pay your rent this week and provide you with some visible means of support until you are ready to publish your first penny dreadful. But I must have your solemn promise that you will keep your mouth shut until I give you permission to print the story.”

“Absolutely, sir. You have my word as a man of honor.”

Ursula sniffed. “You're an extortionist, Mr. Otford. That rather undercuts your claim to being a man of honor, don't you think?”

He contrived to look hurt. “My life has become quite complicated lately, Mrs. Grant.”

“The name is now Mrs. Kern, thanks in large measure to you and your nasty reporting of the Picton divorce trial. And for your information, my life has become complicated, as well.”

Slater held up one hand. “Enough. I think it is time that we all agree to set some priorities and move forward in an effective, efficient manner. First things first. Otford, how did you discover Mrs. Kern's identity?”

Otford cast an uneasy glance at Ursula and cleared his throat. “As to that, sir, I'm afraid I cannot say.”

“I understand that your journalistic ethics may be of more importance to you than your desire to cooperate in this investigation,” Slater said. “However, if that is the case, I'm afraid our financial arrangements must be canceled.”

Otford was panic-stricken. He waved both hands wildly. “No, no, you misunderstood, sir. I didn't mean I
won't
tell you who informed me—I meant that I can't tell you. I don't know the identity of the person who gave me the information.”

Ursula pinned him with a dangerous look. “Then kindly explain how you discovered me.”

“An envelope was pushed under my door earlier this week.” Otford sighed. “Monday afternoon, quite late in the day, to be exact. Someone evidently knew that I had covered the Picton trial and that I would likely recognize you if I saw you again. The note supplied your home address and the address of your secretarial agency. I went around to your office immediately and got a look at you through the window as you were closing up for the day. I knew at once that you were the woman who had testified at the trial. You've changed the style of your hair and you wear mourning now, nevertheless, there is something singularly peculiar about you, Mrs. Grant—I mean, Mrs. Kern.”

“Peculiar?” Ursula sounded as if she had her teeth clenched.

“It's not your looks,” Otford assured her hastily. “They are not particularly memorable but there is something about your character that leaves what I can only describe as a lasting impression.”

Slater thought it wise to distract Ursula before she could counterattack.

“You said you received the message concerning Mrs. Kern on Monday?” he asked.

“That's right,” Otford said.

Slater looked at Ursula. “That was the same day that you met with Lady Fulbrook for the first time.”

“You did say that someone watched me leave in your carriage that first day,” Ursula said.

Griffith reached for the coffeepot. “Sounds like someone wanted Mrs. Kern out of the way.”

“In that case, why not simply dismiss me?” Ursula said. “That's what Lady Fulbrook did today.”

“Terminating the arrangement with your secretarial agency might have kept you out of the Fulbrook house,” Slater said, “but it would not have kept you from investigating Miss Clifton's death.”

“But I didn't tell anyone that I was investigating,” Ursula said.

Slater raised his brows. “You summoned the police the day you found the body. When that did not do any good, you insisted on taking Miss Clifton's place as Lady Fulbrook's secretary. And you were seen leaving that day in my carriage. All in all, I think it's safe to say that you made someone quite nervous. And the fact that you were seen in my company meant that it would have been risky to simply murder you outright.”

Ursula swallowed hard. “Because you would no doubt demand—and get—a full-scale police investigation.”

“Which is the last thing Fulbrook wants,” Slater concluded.

Otford perked up again. “I say, do you think Lord Fulbrook is the one who put the message about Mrs. Grant—Mrs. Kern—under my door?”

“More likely he sent a servant to perform the task but, yes, I think it is a distinct possibility that Fulbrook alerted you to Mrs. Kern's identity.”

Ursula's eyes glittered with unshed tears. “But that means that Anne must have told him my real identity. Why would she do that? I trusted her.”

Slater wanted to comfort her but he knew that it was not the time. “What Fulbrook could not know was that Otford would try to blackmail you instead of exposing you in the sensation press.”

Otford smiled benignly at Ursula. “There now, I did you a favor, Mrs. Kern. It all worked out well in the end, did it not?”

Ursula did not bother to respond. She grabbed a hankie from her satchel and blotted her eyes.

Slater looked at her. “Today when Griffith came to pick me up at the botanist's house he told me that Lady Fulbrook had sent you away immediately after she received a message about a houseguest who is due to arrive from America the day after tomorrow.”

“That's right.” Ursula had herself back under control. She swallowed some tea and lowered the cup. “Lady Fulbrook was visibly cheered by the news. She was excited—said something about not having expected Mr. Cobb until next month. She made it clear that her husband did not think highly of the American but that he was forced to treat Cobb politely because they were business associates. Evidently Cobb is a wealthy, powerful man in New York. Several months ago he entertained Lord and Lady Fulbrook when they visited there.”

“Interesting,” Slater said. Absently he removed his spectacles, took out a handkerchief and began to polish the lenses. “Let us consider what we have here. Two people who have a connection to the ambrosia drug trade are now dead—Anne Clifton and Rosemont. And a wealthy American business associate of Fulbrook's is on his way to London.”

“There's something else, as well,” Ursula said. “I saw the ambrosia plants today.”

Slater went still. “Did you?”

“Lady Fulbrook has a hothouse dedicated to cultivating them.”

A sense of knowing whispered through Slater. “That is even more interesting. Another step on the path. The pattern is finally becoming more visible.”

He realized the others had fallen silent and were gazing at him with curious expressions. He put on the spectacles.

“The botanist I consulted this morning informed me that what we are calling the ambrosia plant—it has a rather long and complicated Latin name—is something of a legend in the botanical community,” he said. “All the references to it come from the Far East and most of those are mere hearsay. He knew of no specimens that had been successfully cultivated in Great Britain. According to the few notes he found, the plant can produce a powerful euphoria and induce visions.”

Otford had been scribbling madly. He paused and looked up, face scrunched into a frown. “What makes this particular drug so special? It is not as though there is not a wide variety of opium-based drugs available for sale everywhere. Most housewives have their own family recipes for laudanum.”

“At the moment ambrosia has the distinction of being unique because, as far as we can tell, it is only available from one source,” Slater said. “The Olympus Club appears to have a monopoly. Monopolies can be quite profitable.”

“Huh.” Otford tapped his pencil against his notebook. “The name of that club rings a bell. Can't quite remember why.”

“In that case I would like you to see what you can find out about the Olympus,” Slater said. “Talk to some of the people who work there but I advise you to be discreet. People are getting killed in this affair.”

Otford brightened. “Right. Murdered. Assassin running around.”

“So it seems,” Slater said. “I think we need to find out whatever we can about Cobb.”

“But he isn't even in London yet,” Ursula said.

She was not challenging him, Slater realized, merely curious about his reasoning.