Garden of Lies (27 page)

T
he vast gardens at the rear of the Fulbrook mansion were choked with moonlit fog. Slater paused for a moment on the top of the wall. A low growl emanated from somewhere in the shadows.

“Ah, there you are,” he whispered. “Good dog.”

He unwrapped the large chunk of beef that he had brought with him and dropped it. There was a soft thud when it hit the ground. A moment later a large, furry body rushed through the mist. The mastiff pounced on the meat.

Slater tied off the rope and repelled lightly down the brick wall. The dog stood, front legs braced over the beef, and growled a warning.

“The meal is all yours, my friend. Take your time.”

The dog went to work on the large snack. Slater turned his attention to the job at hand.

The thick foliage combined with heavy mist provided ample cover. In fact, Slater concluded, it would have been all too easy to get lost. Fortunately, he had a decent sense of direction.

He also had Ursula's detailed description of what she had seen of the ground floor and the gardens. She had been alarmed upon hearing that he intended to let himself into the mansion and had tried to dissuade him. But eventually logic had won out. She had conceded that the information they needed was most likely concealed inside the house. There was no other way to search for it.

It took some time and a couple of close encounters with assorted garden statues but he managed to make his way to the back wall of the house. He found the French doors that marked the garden entrance to the library exactly where Ursula had said they would be.

Turning, he paced along the wall, counting the casement windows until he came to the third set. If Ursula was right, he had located Fulbrook's study.

There was only a crack and a ping when he used the pry bar to snap the lock and open the windows. He was inside within seconds. A surge of energy spiked with amusement heated his blood. Now that he was back in London he had not expected to find himself using the skills he had perfected recovering lost, strayed and stolen artifacts.

He paused in the darkened room, listening intently. There were no shouts of alarm, no pounding footsteps on the stairs. No rumblings from the servants' quarters.

He definitely had a talent for this sort of thing. And there was no denying that he got a bit of a thrill out of it. It occurred to him that he had missed the work.

The gas lamps had been turned down very low but there was enough light for him to make out the big desk and the heavy floor safe. He decided that if there was anything of great interest to be found, the odds were excellent that it would be in the safe.

He crossed the room to the door and was reassured to discover that it was locked. He would have at least a few seconds' warning in the event someone heard him and came to investigate.

He went to the safe, crouched and took the stethoscope out of his pocket. He fixed the earpieces in place and planted the other end of the device near the combination lock. He listened to the tumblers click into place as he turned the dial.

He got the safe open and reached inside. His fingers brushed against a large envelope and a leather-bound volume. There was also a thickly stuffed packet.

He withdrew the book, the envelope and the packet, rose and went to the desk. He opened the packet first and found a large supply of banknotes. He stuck the money back into the safe and returned to the desk to open the envelope. Several photographs and the negatives fell onto the blotter. It was too dark to make out the images.

He waited a few seconds, listening carefully to the sleeping house. When he was satisfied that no one had been awakened he turned up the lamp suspended over the desk. He studied the photographs for a moment and then he opened the journal. It did not take long to understand what he had found.

He turned down the lamp, closed and locked the safe and went back through the window.

The dog trotted up to him with a hopeful air. He scratched the mastiff's ears and then he climbed the rope to the top of the garden wall and descended to the ground on the other side. He paused to retrieve the climbing equipment and then he faded into the night.

It was gratifying to be back in business. He had missed the exercise.

B
lackmail,” Slater said. “That answers one question about Fulbrook. We knew he was supplying the drug to the members of the club. Now we know why.”

Ursula looked at the photographs spread across Slater's desk. Outrage swept through her. The images were of naked lovers entwined and asleep in bed. What made them so potentially damaging was that both people in the erotically themed photographs were male.

“Fulbrook is despicable,” she said. “No wonder Valerie will go to such lengths to escape him.”

Lilly picked up one of the photographs. “I recognize the bald man in this picture—Lord Mayhew.”

“He was one of the members of the Olympus Club who was reputed to have taken his own life in recent months, according to Brice,” Slater said.

“The men in these photographs all appear to be asleep,” Ursula said.

“More likely unconscious,” Slater said. “I think it's obvious that the men engaged in a sexual encounter and then were exposed to a dose of ambrosia that was strong enough to induce unconsciousness long enough for the photographs to be taken.”

“Society's attitudes toward women are harsh enough,” Lilly remarked. “But they are just as cruel when it comes to liaisons conducted between two male lovers. Furthermore, as far as the law is concerned such relationships are illegal. Mind you, the reality is that most people turn a blind eye to this sort of thing but if those photographs were made public, they would destroy the gentlemen involved.”

Ursula glanced at the journal and then looked at Slater. “What else did you find in that book?”

“More detailed blackmail material. Rumors of relationships that could jeopardize the marriage prospects of the daughters of certain highly placed men. Notes about the financial distress of other members that could ruin them socially.”

“Blackmail is a risky undertaking,” Lilly said.

“Only if the victims know the identity of the extortionist,” Ursula pointed out. “I have had some experience in that regard if you will recall.”

“I do believe that Mr. Otford is well aware that he is fortunate to be alive,” Slater said.

Ursula sighed. “At least he had a reason to blackmail me. He was hungry and on the verge of becoming homeless. Fulbrook does not have any such excuse. He is a wealthy man. Why would he stoop to something so terrible?”

“I doubt very much that this is about money,” Slater said, “although there was a good deal of it in the safe. But there is one commodity that is even more attractive to some men. Power. If you know a man's secrets you can control him.”

Ursula took a breath. “Yes, of course. But surely these men—the victims—would know the identity of the blackmailer. They would take action.”

“I agree that if even one of those highly placed men knew who was behind the blackmail scheme, Fulbrook's life would not be worth a penny,” Slater said. He turned away from the desk and went to stand at the window. “Which is why I'm sure none of them know the truth. We must assume that Fulbrook is very careful about what he is doing. I'm sure that none of the men in those photographs has any clear memory of the events.”

“I have certainly seen men suffer blackouts after drinking too much,” Lilly said. “And the effects of opium can be so intoxicating that users can become quite . . . careless.”

Ursula looked at Slater. “What do you intend to do with the information that you have discovered?”

Slater glanced at her. “I'm going to talk to Fulbrook.”

“You plan to tell him that you know that he is blackmailing people?” Lilly asked sharply.

“I am going to give him a chance,” Slater said. “That is more than Anne Clifton, Rosemont and Mrs. Wyatt got.”

“A chance to do what?” Ursula asked.

“To survive,” Slater said.

“I don't understand,” Lilly said.

But Ursula did. She searched Slater's face. “You believe that Fulbrook is next on Damian Cobb's list, don't you?”

“I'm sure of it.”

“Then why warn him?” Ursula said. She waved a hand at the photographs and the journal. “He's a blackmailer who has been responsible for the suicides of at least two men. His threats have no doubt made life a living hell for the other people in that journal. And what about that woman—Nicole—who worked for the Pavilion of Pleasure? Fulbrook is directly responsible for her death because he introduced the drug to the Olympus Club.”

“I'm aware of that,” Slater said. He took off his spectacles and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket.

“Slater, he doesn't deserve to be warned,” Ursula said. “I say let Cobb get rid of him.”

Slater polished the lenses of his eyeglasses. “You are very fierce tonight. I find the quality admirable in a lady.”

She folded her arms tightly beneath her breasts. “Fulbrook may have a title and a fine pedigree but he is, in truth, a crime lord who has gotten away with his crimes because of his rank in Society. You know very well that it is unlikely we will ever be able to find the proof we would need to have him arrested. Even if we did, it's even less likely that he would be convicted and sent to prison.”

Slater put his handkerchief back into his pocket and looked at the tall clock. “I know.”

She unfolded her arms and spread her hands wide, exasperated. “Then why warn him that Cobb may be about to kill him?”

Slater put on his glasses and gathered up the photographs. “I'm going to warn him because it will make no difference in the end.”

S
later ignored the barely veiled stares and the sudden hush that had descended on the club room. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. Most of the men lounging in the deep, leather chairs were dressed in formal black-and-white. Bottles of claret and brandy sat on every side table. A haze of cigar smoke hung in the air.

One elderly man whom Slater recognized as a friend of his father's snorted in amusement and winked. Slater nodded in acknowledgment and continued on his way into the card room. He had refused to surrender his greatcoat and hat to the porter so he dripped rainwater on the carpet.

Fulbrook was seated at a table with three other men. He held a handful of cards and he was chuckling at a comment one of the other players had just made when the room went very quiet. Like everyone else, he turned toward the door to see who or what had caused the sudden stillness. When he saw Slater, he grunted and made a show of examining his cards.

“Evidently the management of this club is allowing just anyone in these days,” he said to his companions, “including those who are rumored to be candidates for an asylum.”

One man snickered uneasily. The rest of the players concentrated on their cards as though the stakes had suddenly become life-or-death.

Slater walked to the table. “My apologies for the interruption, Fulbrook, but I have a rather important message for you.”

“I'm busy, Roxton. Some other time.”

“If you would rather discuss the matter of a certain journal and some photographs at a future date—”

Fulbrook shot to his feet so quickly his chair tipped over backward and clattered on the floor.

“Your father may have been a gentleman but it's clear that your manners must have come from your mother's side,” he said.

“Your insult to my mother has been noted,” Slater said. “But I have certain priorities tonight. Shall we continue with this discussion here or outside, where we can be assured of some privacy?”

“Outside. I don't want to subject my friends and associates to your presence any longer than is necessary.”

Slater turned and went to the door without a word. Fulbrook hesitated and then followed. In the front hall the porter handed him his coat and his hat, gloves and umbrella.

Slater led the way outside and down the steps into the rain. He stopped at the edge of the circle of light cast by the streetlamp.

“I have a cab waiting,” he said. He nodded toward the carriage sitting across the street.

Fulbrook unfurled the umbrella and glanced warily at the cab.

“You really are mad if you think I'd get into a cab with you,” he said.

“As you wish. I'll try to make this quick. I have the photographs and the blackmail journal that you stored in the safe in your study.”

“You're lying.” Fulbrook started to sputter. “How could you possibly . . . you hired someone to break into my house, you son of a bitch. How dare you?”

“I didn't hire someone. I did the work myself. Feel free to press charges but if you do I shall, of course, have to tell a jury what I discovered inside your safe.”

“You bastard.” Fulbrook sounded as if he were choking. “You stand there and admit that you are a burglar?”

“And you are a blackmailer—also an excellent bookkeeper. Your records are very precise. I noticed that you crossed out the names of two of your victims—the ones who chose suicide rather than provide you with whatever it was you demanded of them in exchange for keeping their secrets.”

“The time you spent on that damned island addled your wits, Roxton. You apparently have no idea who you are dealing with here.”

“You are the one who fails to grasp the severity of the situation. I am aware that you have formed a partnership with an American named Damian Cobb.”

“What of it? I admit I have done some business with Cobb. He might be vulgar but he's a successful businessman, not a crime lord.”

“In this case, there's not much distinction between the two. While we're on the subject, there are two things you should know about Cobb. The first is that he has no intention of maintaining a long-term partnership. His goal is to set up a monopoly to control the drug and he plans to run his business from New York. That means he no longer needs your manufacturing, production and distribution network.”

Rage tightened Fulbrook's face. “That's a lie.”

“Why do you think he employed an assassin to murder Rosemont, the perfumer who prepared the drug for you, and your courier, Anne Clifton, and Mrs. Wyatt?”

“There was an explosion at Rosemont's laboratory. The authorities believe that he was buried in the rubble.”

“You're not keeping up with the news, Fulbrook. Rosemont's body was discovered yesterday. Someone took a stiletto to the back of his neck. Mrs. Wyatt died as the result of a very similar accident with a stiletto.”

Fulbrook stiffened. “I heard she was murdered by one of her clients.”

“She was dealing quantities of the drug on the side. I'm not sure if Cobb got rid of her because she went into business for herself or if he simply decided that she knew too much. I suspect that's the reason he had Anne Clifton killed.”

“The Clifton woman was a suicide or an overdose.”

“It doesn't matter now. What matters is that you are the one member of the British side of the business who is still standing.”

“That's ridiculous. Cobb can't get rid of me. I'm the only one who can supply him with the drug. He knows that.”

“I suggest you take up that matter with Cobb. He's in town.”

Fulbrook snorted. “You're wrong. His ship does not dock until tomorrow.”

“He deceived you, Fulbrook. Cobb and his pet assassin arrived a few days ago, right around the time of Anne Clifton's death.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because I found the assassin's body last night. It was in a crate at the warehouse. You know the place, I'm sure. It's where Rosemont delivered the ambrosia that was scheduled to be shipped to New York.”

Slater started to turn away. He stopped when Fulbrook grabbed his arm.

“Take your hand off me,” Slater said very softly.

Fulbrook flinched. He released Slater's sleeve as though the fabric were made of hellfire.

“You said Cobb is in London,” Fulbrook hissed. “If that's true, prove it. Where is he staying?”

“I can't be absolutely certain,” Slater said. “But I found a card from the Stokely Hotel on the dead assassin. I sent a man to take a look. Sure enough, there is an American businessman registered there under a different name. The assassin apparently masqueraded as his valet.”

Fulbrook was dumbfounded. “You're lying. You must be lying.”

“We'll soon find out, won't we? The news will be a great sensation in the press.”

“What news?”

“Your death, of course. The murder of a gentleman who is as well-known in social circles as you are is always news.”

“Are you threatening me, you bloody madman?”

“No, I'm doing you the courtesy of giving you a warning,” Slater said. “I suggest you go directly to the railway station and depart London on the first available train. It is your only hope.”

“Cobb would not dare murder me. He needs me, I tell you.”

“I suppose there is a slight possibility that he won't kill you.”

“He would
hang
.”

“If he got caught,” Slater said. “But even if I'm wrong about Cobb's intentions, that still leaves all your other enemies, doesn't it?”

“Now what are you talking about?”

“I have made arrangements for the various pages of your journal and the photographs and negatives to be delivered to your respective victims tomorrow. Notes will be included mentioning that the materials were discovered in your safe. How long do you think you will survive once the powerful men you are blackmailing discover that you are the extortionist? Perhaps, instead of a train ticket, you should consider booking passage to Australia.”

Fulbrook stared at him, stunned. “You're a dead man.
A dead man.
”

Slater did not bother to respond. He walked across the street and climbed into the hansom. The cab set off at a brisk pace.

He glanced back just before the vehicle turned the corner. Fulbrook was still standing in front of his club looking as if he had just received a visitation by the devil.