Garden of Lies (19 page)

“The fact that Cobb's ship has not yet docked doesn't mean he is not involved in this affair,” he explained. He went behind his desk, sat down and reached for a sheet of paper. “Griffith, I am going to give you a telegram addressed to a former client of mine in New York. I want you to take it to the nearest telegraph office immediately.”

Griffith polished off one last tart and dusted his hands. “Aye, sir.”

Slater wrote out the message. Griffith took it and glanced at the address. “Your client is a director of a museum?”

“I occasionally tracked down stolen artifacts for him and I helped him avoid some of the frauds that were offered to him. One case, in particular, had the potential to ruin the museum's reputation. But as it happens, things worked out well and now the director owes me a favor. He may not know anything about Cobb, personally, but he will have connections among the city's wealthy elite. If Cobb has money, which seems to be the case, people will know about him.”

“Right, then.” Griffith folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “I'll be off.”

Otford waited until the door closed behind Griffith. Then he cleared his throat.

“I believe I see where you are headed here, sir,” he said. “Do you really think that a high-ranking gentleman like Lord Fulbrook may be involved in these murders?”

“I don't know,” Slater said. “I am still collecting information. The sooner you conduct your interviews, the sooner we will have some notion of what is going on.”

“Understood, sir.” Otford bounced to his feet and grabbed the last sandwich off the tray. “I know exactly how to go about gaining information from servants. My parents were in service. But I can tell you right now that no one will talk to me unless I make it worth their while.”

“I will instruct my butler to supply you with some bribe money.” Slater tugged on the velvet bellpull. “Webster will also take care of your rent.”

Otford chuckled and headed toward the door. “Very kind of you, sir. Look forward to working with you on this project. With a story this big and your financial backing, I will be able to launch my magazine.”

He disappeared out into the hall.

Ursula looked at Slater. A deep curiosity burned in her eyes.

“You did a favor for the director of a museum in New York?” she asked without inflection.

“I warned you that I had a checkered past, Ursula.”

She smiled ruefully. “As do I.”

“Perhaps that is an indication that we are well-suited to each other.”

“Some pasts are more checkered than others. But given what has happened, I suppose you are due an explanation.”

“You are entitled to your privacy,” he said. “Everyone has secrets.”

“Unfortunately, it appears that mine are no longer hidden.”

U
rsula drank a little more tea and set the cup aside. She got to her feet and went to stand at the window, looking out into the garden.

“I suppose I should thank you for following me to the cemetery this afternoon,” she said.

“That's not necessary,” Slater said.

She was not certain what to make of his quiet patience. Most men would have been aghast to discover that they were conducting a liaison with a woman who was being blackmailed; one who had been involved in a notorious divorce scandal; a woman who carried a pistol to a meeting with an extortionist.

“I wasn't going to kill him, you know,” she said after a moment. “Otford wasn't worth getting myself arrested and hung for murder. But I thought that I might be able to frighten him into leaving me alone.”

“It was a perfectly reasonable plan.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Do you think so?”

“It suffered from the usual problems associated with a spur-of-the-moment strategy but, yes, overall, not a bad plan. It might have worked.”

She found his approval quite cheering.

“I must say you handled him very well,” she said. “A plate of sandwiches and a little money and suddenly he is working for you.”

“He believes that he's working in his own best interests and that is true in some respects. I have learned that most people are amenable to projects in which they see a personal benefit.”

She smiled. “Do I detect a note of cynicism?”

“I consider myself a realist, Ursula.”

She was almost amused now. “Yet you are the ultimate romantic, Mr. Roxton.”

He appeared to be blindsided by that remark. When he recovered his expression went hard.

“What the devil makes you say that?”

“I am very much afraid that you had the grave misfortune to be born with the spirit of one of the old chivalric heroes, Slater. You employ a ragtag household staff that no one else would hire. You returned to London to guard the inheritance of your two half brothers even though the title and the money should have come to you by right of blood. You do not feel at home here but you stay because of the responsibilities that were thrust upon you. And you insisted on getting involved in what most would call a foolish, utterly ridiculous scheme to investigate a murder because you were afraid I might be in danger.”

He shook his head. “Ursula.”

He stopped, evidently out of words.

“Yes, Slater, I'm afraid you are doomed to play the hero.”

“That's nonsense.” He got to his feet and crossed the room to stand beside her. “What matters is finding out who slipped the note containing the information about your real identity and your address under Otford's door.”

“The only person who knew the truth about me—at least as far as I am aware—was Anne Clifton. She must have confided the information to someone in the Fulbrook household. But why would she do that?” Ursula blinked tears out of her eyes. “I trusted her. I thought she was my friend.”

Slater put his arm around her and hugged her close. “Not everyone is worthy of your trust.”

“Don't you think I know that?” Ursula freed herself from his grasp and hurried across the room to her satchel. She took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “I knew Anne was reckless in some ways but we had so much in common. And it's difficult to go through life without having at least one other person know the truth about oneself.”

“You were alone and lonely. You took a risk. Things didn't work out. It's not the end of the world.”

She gave him a misty smile. “No, it's not, is it?”

“The real question here is, who did Anne Clifton tell?” Slater began to prowl the room. “Lady Fulbrook, who, in turn, might have confided in her husband?”

Ursula tried to make herself concentrate. “Remember I mentioned that I thought Anne might have been involved in a romantic liaison?”

Slater stopped at the far end of the room and looked at her. “Yes.”

“Perhaps she became Lord Fulbrook's mistress. Lady Fulbrook said she tried to warn Anne not to get involved with a man who was far above her on the social ladder. If Anne was having an affair with Fulbrook it might explain why she got involved in his drug business.” Ursula paused. “And perhaps it would also explain why she told him the truth about me. She might have felt it safe to confide in a lover.”

“We don't have all the answers yet,” Slater said. “We are still on the path.”

“What path?”

“Just an expression,” he said rather absently. He crossed the room to where she stood, caught her hand in his and kissed her palm. He met her eyes. “Never fear, we will find our way out of this labyrinth.”

A hush fell on the room.

“About the Picton divorce trial,” Ursula said after a moment.

“It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does matter.” She freed her hand and went to the window. “You deserve to know the truth.”

“I can tell you now that none of it will make any difference.”

“There is not much to the tale,” she said, determined to get through the business. “The difficulty was that no one believed my version of events.” She took a breath and composed herself to get through the sordid tale as quickly as possible. “After my husband's death I was left penniless. I took a post as a paid companion to Lady Picton. It was obvious from the start that Lord Picton lived a very debauched life. The housekeeper advised me to lock my door at night and I made certain to do so.”

Slater said nothing. He waited as if he had all the time in the world.

“One night Picton came home quite drunk,” Ursula continued. “He tried the door of my bedroom. It was not the first time he had done so but in the past he had always gone away when he discovered that the door was locked. That night, however, he had the key. I realized later that Lady Picton had given it to him.”

“She sent him to your room that night because she wanted grounds for divorce,” Slater said. “Proof of adultery.”

“She reasoned that adultery, together with charges of cruelty, would be sufficient grounds. Picton intended to rape me that night. That never happened. I fought him and started screaming. The next thing I know Lady Picton and half the household staff are standing in the doorway. Lady Picton had a pistol. Picton turned on her in a drunken fury. She shot him in the leg. I think she intended to kill him and pretend to have mistaken him for a burglar who had attacked her companion. But she was a poor shot. It was all very messy. The trial was worse.”

“You were the star witness, I take it?” Slater said.

“Yes. Picton fought the divorce because he had married Lady Picton for her money. He did not want to lose access to her family's fortune. In the end, Lady Picton got her freedom but my reputation was in ruins.”

“You created a new life for yourself,” Slater said. “That is a remarkable accomplishment, Ursula. Few people would have been able to summon the courage and the will to do that. I am in awe of you, madam.”

Her eyes were watery again. She hurried to her satchel and took out the sodden handkerchief. Feeling quite awkward, she blotted her eyes for the third time.

“My apologies,” she said. “It has been some time since I lost my composure like that. All I can say is that is has been a rather trying day.”

He smiled. “I would never have guessed that was the case.”

She dropped the damp linen square back into her satchel. She was about to fasten the bag when she noticed her stenography notebook. The sight of it reminded her of the possibility that had occurred to her earlier, before she had read Otford's blackmail demand and set out for the cemetery.

She closed the satchel and turned to look at Slater.

“This afternoon, after Lady Fulbrook dismissed me, I intended to go home to reread some of the entries in Anne's notebook—lines that did not make much sense as poetry.”

“What has occurred to you?”

“I wondered if perhaps Lady Fulbrook was dictating love letters to Anne, not love poems.”

Comprehension heated Slater's eyes. “Love letters to a Mr. Cobb in New York, perhaps?”

“Who concealed his identity by posing as Mr. Paladin, the editor of a small literary magazine. Would that be so far-fetched? Lady Fulbrook is very unhappy in her marriage. If she and Cobb had an affair several months ago during that visit to New York she might have continued the relationship through love letters. But she could not risk having her husband discover what was going on beneath his nose so she used Anne as a go-between.”

“That would shed a very interesting light on the investigation.”

“If Lady Fulbrook believes herself to be in love with Cobb, it would explain her giddy delight this morning when she discovered that he was due to arrive much earlier than expected. But there is something else. I believe that Anne may have established her own private correspondence with Paladin. I haven't had a chance to read all the letters that she received from him but in the first few he acknowledges having received a short story from her. He indicates he's interested in publishing it.”

Slater's brows rose. “Did Miss Clifton write short stories?”

“Not to my knowledge. If she had attracted the attention of a publisher I'm certain she would have mentioned it. Another thing—I suspect Lady Fulbrook is the one who came up with the pen name Paladin.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, she is the one with the vivid imagination.” Ursula smiled sadly. “And if you will recall, the word
paladin
refers to a chivalrous knight.”

The knock on the door stopped Slater before he could react to that observation.

“Come in, Mrs. Webster,” he said.

The door opened. With a flourish, Mrs. Webster held out an envelope. “This just arrived for you, sir. It's from your mother.”

“Thank you.”

Slater ripped open the envelope and unfolded the note.

Ursula watched him, sensing the subtle whisper of anticipation that shivered in the atmosphere around him.

“Is it something important?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Mrs. Wyatt, the proprietor of the Pavilion of Pleasure, has agreed to meet with us. She will await us this evening at the folly in Lantern Park.”

“She does not want us to be seen at her establishment.”

“She is taking precautions,” Slater said. “She notes there will be a price for any information that she provides.”

Ursula did not bother to conceal her excitement. “Your mother did warn us that Mrs. Wyatt was very much a businesswoman.”