Garden of Lies (26 page)

“Hmm.” Some of Ursula's enthusiasm evaporated. “I hadn't considered the financial angle.”

A
ye, sir, Rosemont was in the habit of hiring a horse and cart from my establishment,” Jake Townsend said. “Employed my son, Ned, to load the bags of incense and deliver the goods.”

Slater stood with Ursula at the wide entrance of the livery stable. J. Townsend Livery Services
advertised private carriages, wagons and carts for hire. Judging by the size of the stable, however, it appeared to be a small business—he could see only three stalls inside the building and a single, aged, badly sprung carriage. Nevertheless, a stable was a stable and the scent of horses and all things related to them was heavy in the atmosphere.

Townsend was middle-aged, with a weather-beaten face and the tough, wiry build of a man who had spent a lifetime around stables. But he was eager to chat once Slater had made it clear to him that he would be paid for his time and cooperation.

Townsend was easy enough to deal with, Slater concluded, but Ursula was a complete mystery to him this morning. She was once again concealed behind her stylish widow's veil. It was impossible to read her expression—not that he had been able to read it earlier at breakfast.

She had been in an odd mood when she descended the stairs that morning and her temper hadn't improved with Mrs. Webster's excellent coffee, at least not as far as he could discern. Initially he had assured himself that the problem was that she had not slept well but now he was starting to wonder—not without some dread—if she regretted last night's passionate encounter in the labyrinth chamber. Perhaps she regretted the first one in her study, as well.

He was convinced now that the fact that she had locked her door last night was a very bad omen.

He forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

“So, Rosemont was a regular customer?” he asked.

“That he was,” Townsend said. He shook his head in a mournful way. “Going to miss his business. He sold a great quantity of incense and the French stuff he called potpourri. But I have to say, I'm bloody damned grateful that my establishment was in the next street when his shop went up in flames. The explosion not only destroyed his building, it did a fair amount of damage to the ones on either side, as well. Luckily, they were empty. Gave us quite a scare, I can tell you. Horses went mad for a bit.”

“I can imagine,” Ursula said.

Slater heard the icy impatience that edged her words but she had the sense not to rush Townsend.

“According to the press, the authorities believe the fire was caused by a gas explosion,” Slater said.

“Aye, maybe.” Townsend's face creased in disapproval. “But if you ask me, it was all those bags of dried leaves he kept stored in his workshop that fed the flames. And between you and me, there's no telling what chemicals he was using to make that incense and the potpourri. The smell hung over the neighborhood for hours.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Townsend.” Slater took some money out of his pocket. “Just one more question and then we'll leave you to your work.”

“What is it ye want to know, sir?”

“You said that Rosemont hired your son and a cart to make deliveries on a regular basis. I'd very much like to know the locations of those routine deliveries.”

“There were only two addresses. One was a mansion that housed some sort of private club. The other was a warehouse near the docks. Rosemont shipped a lot of his goods to New York, ye see.”

I
understand now why you insisted on going back to your house to fetch a pry bar,” Ursula said. “You knew the warehouse would probably be locked. Excellent thinking, sir.”

Slater was in the process of wedging the iron bar into the narrow crack between the edge of the door and the frame. He paused long enough to shoot her an unreadable glance.

“I find it makes a pleasant change of pace.” He leaned heavily on the pry bar. “Thinking, that is.”

She blinked, not certain how to take the remark. “Change of pace?”

“Wouldn't want to overindulge, of course. Might get in the habit.”

“Quite right,” she said coolly. “Nasty habit, thinking too much.”

“I agree.”

“I must say, you are in a rather sour mood this morning, Slater.”

“The odd thing is that I awoke in a very fine mood. Don't know what happened to change the situation.”

She narrowed her eyes. “The weather, perhaps. It does appear as if we're in for a storm.”

“Right. The weather.”

He leaned once more on the pry bar. The lock groaned and then gave way with a protesting shriek of metal and wood. The door popped open. The musty smell of old, slowly rotting timber and damp air wafted out. There were other odors, as well; a whiff of an acrid, herbal scent caught Ursula's attention.

She stood beside Slater and looked into the shadowy gloom. There was just enough light slanting through the grimy windows to reveal the crates and barrels that littered the floor. Frayed ropes and hoists dangled from the loft.

“We have come to the right place,” Slater said. He studied the trail of footprints on the floor. “There have been visitors here quite recently.”

He followed the path toward a closed crate. Ursula fell into step beside him. She sniffed delicately and wrinkled her nose.

“I smelled that same odor inside Rosemont's shop,” she said. “There is a large quantity of the drug stored in this place. But there is something else here, as well. A dead rat, perhaps.”

Slater stopped in front of the first of three crates. “These are locked and ready for shipment.”

He applied the pry bar to the lid of one of the wooden crates. When it popped open Ursula saw a number of canvas sacks stacked neatly inside. The smell of the drug grew stronger.

“Don't move,” Slater said quietly.

She froze at the soft command. When she followed his glance she saw the dark stains on the floor. A chill swept through her.

“Blood?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Slater said. “And not very old.”

He followed the trail to a nearby crate. It was not locked. He raised the lid and looked inside.

“Well, this answers one question,” Slater said.

“Who—?” Ursula asked.

“The former owner of the walking stick stiletto.”

Ursula remained where she was. She had no desire to go any closer. She watched Slater lean over the crate and methodically rummage through the dead man's clothes.

“How was he killed?” she asked.

“Shot. Twice. All very professional-looking.”

“Professional?”

“It's safe to say that whoever murdered this man has had some experience in the business.” Slater paused, reaching deeper into the crate. “But he was somewhat out of practice.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He did not do a thorough job of stripping the body.”

Slater straightened and turned around. She saw a small white business card in his gloved hand.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The address of the Stokely Hotel. I found it tucked safely inside his shoe. I have the impression that our visitor from out of town was terrified of getting lost in our fair city. He kept the address of his hotel in a place where he could be certain he would not lose it.”

“What is our next step?”

“We've got a professional killer who has now become a murder victim,” Slater said. “We do what any concerned citizen would do. We contact Scotland Yard.”

L
illy picked up the teapot and poured tea into the two delicate porcelain cups that sat on the tray. “I must say, I have not seen Slater this interested in life since he returned to London.”

“He does seem to have become quite fixed on the problem of Anne Clifton's murder,” Ursula said.

She was acutely aware of the quiet
tick-tick-tick
of the tall clock in the corner of the library. Every time she glanced at the face it seemed that the hands had not moved.

Immediately after the discovery of the body in the warehouse, Slater had brought her back to his house and left her there with Lilly, the Websters and Griffith. He had then gone off to talk to someone at Scotland Yard. Upon returning from that venture, he had announced that he needed to spend some time in the labyrinth chamber. He was presently in his basement retreat. He had been downstairs for nearly an hour.

“I'm quite certain that it is not the murder of poor Miss Clifton that has brought him out of the shadows,” Lilly said. “You are the reason he is showing more enthusiasm for life.”

“Well, I am the one who brought the case to his notice,” Ursula said.

“No, my dear, you had his full attention before you told him of the murder.”

“How on earth could you tell?”

Lilly smiled serenely. “A mother knows.”

“He certainly had me fooled.”

“Now, dear, there's no need for sarcasm. I'm quite sure that Slater took a strong, personal interest in you the day I introduced the two of you.”

“May I remind you that, before he returned to London, your son spent a year in a monastery of some sort. Following that, he passed the next several years knocking around the world pursuing lost and stolen artifacts. All in all, one can see that he has probably not had much opportunity to form a romantic attachment with anyone.” Ursula cleared her throat. “And he is endowed with a healthy, vigorous temperament.”

Lilly looked pleased. “You noticed his healthy, vigorous temperament, did you?”

“My point is that I'm quite certain that he would have taken a
strong, personal interest
in any unattached female who intruded into his life at the time I did.”

“Trust me, my dear, Slater is more than capable of finding female companionship when he chooses to do so.”

That was no doubt true, Ursula thought. The notion was dispiriting.

“The press noted that a young lady in whom he had a romantic interest got engaged and married to another man while he was stranded on Fever Island,” she said in a subdued tone.

“The facts are correct but I can assure you that Slater's association with Isabella was a mild flirtation, at best. She used him to attract the attention of the gentleman who eventually offered for her. Slater was well aware that she had set her sights on someone else. He did not mind because he was focused on the Fever Island expedition. Marriage was the last thing on his mind in those days.”

“You're certain?”

“Positive. Slater's heart was not broken at the time. But in the years since he left Fever Island I have become increasingly concerned about him. I had begun to wonder if he had no heart left to break.”

Ursula looked up from her tea. “Why do you say that?”

“I feared those strange monks at that monastery had destroyed the part of him that was capable of passion.”

“No,” Ursula said quickly. “I'm sure that's not the case. Only consider that he is quite passionate—there is no other word for it—about solving the murder of my secretary.”

“There are murders every week in London. I have not seen Slater take an interest in any of them. It is you who intrigues my son, Ursula, and for that I am more grateful than I can say. It is as if you have flung open a cell door and allowed him to emerge back into the daylight.”

“Nonsense,” Ursula said. She gripped the saucer very tightly. “You are overdramatizing the situation. The reality is that Slater simply needed some time to readjust to life here in London.”

The door opened before Lilly could respond. Slater entered the room, icy determination electrifying the atmosphere.

“I have devised a plan,” he said.

He explained quickly.

Ursula was horrified.

“You mustn't,” Lilly said.

“Are you mad?” Ursula demanded.

“I understand that theory has been put forward in the press from time to time,” Slater allowed.