Garden of Lies (6 page)

M
y nerves are quite delicate, Mrs. Kern.” Valerie, Lady Fulbrook, clasped her hands on top of her desk. “I have difficulty sleeping. At unpredictable times and for no apparent reason, I am suddenly overcome with anxiety and dread. I am easily tossed into the depths of despondence by matters that, to those who possess sturdier nerves, would seem the merest of trifles. But I have discovered that writing my little poems provides me with significant relief. I was fortunate to find a small publisher in New York that has been kind enough to take some of my efforts for its magazine.”

“That would be the
Paladin Literary Quarterly
?” Ursula asked. “I found the address in Anne's files.”

“Yes. Paladin doesn't pay, you understand, except in free copies of the
Quarterly
. But I am not writing to make an income. It is therapy.”

“I understand,” Ursula said. “I'm glad that you have found the services of the Kern Secretarial Agency helpful.”

They were alone in Valerie's small, private study. A short time ago a dour-faced maid had brought in a tea tray, poured two cups and departed. She had moved like a ghost throughout the process, making almost no noise.

There was, Ursula noticed, a curiously oppressive hush about the entire household. It was as though the inhabitants were waiting for someone to die.

Ursula had been to the Fulbrook mansion once before when Valerie had sent a message to the agency saying that she wished to hire a secretary. Ursula always insisted upon meeting new clients personally. She took the precaution for two reasons. First, and foremost, it sent a clear message that the agency was an elite establishment and it expected clients to treat the professional secretaries with respect. The second reason she insisted on an initial face-to-face meeting was so that she could gain an impression of the client.

This afternoon Ursula concluded that her initial impressions had been accurate. Valerie was a beautiful but fragile flower that could easily be crushed underfoot. Her blond hair was pinned into a chignon that emphasized her pale skin and fine-boned features. She was small and thin but elegantly, gracefully proportioned—a dainty fairy princess. She appeared composed but there was a bleak desperation in her blue eyes. Her voice suited her appearance, weak and faint, as though the slightest breeze would blow it away.

Valerie was a woman who, in the right gown and endowed with an air of confidence, could have been capable of lighting up a ballroom. But it was clear that she had retreated almost entirely from life.

“I do not pretend that my poetry has any claims to literary merit,” Valerie said. “But my doctor tells me it is doing wonders for my nerves.”

“I am happy to be able to assist you in the endeavor,” Ursula said.

“As I explained when I first engaged a secretary from your agency, I would write the poems myself but I find that I gain a much clearer impression of how they will appear in print if I read them in typewritten form. Also, I fear that I become quite anxious when I try to write down a final version of my own poems. I cannot stop myself from going over them again and again. I get quite frustrated and depressed. But for some reason when I dictate them, the words come more freely.”

Ursula had stayed awake late into the night contemplating two things—the fact that she might never see Slater again and a way to introduce the subject of Anne Clifton when she met with Lady Fulbrook. There was no answer to the problem of Slater Roxton but when it came to the matter of the investigation she concluded that a few straightforward questions might not seem suspicious.

“I realize it must have come as a shock to learn that Miss Clifton had passed,” she said gently. “You were accustomed to working with her, after all, and had no doubt established a certain routine.”

“Yes, Anne—Miss Clifton—was an excellent secretary.” Valerie sighed. “I will miss her. You say the police believe she took her own life?”

“Yes. Those of us who knew her at the agency were astonished by that news but evidently there is little doubt about the facts.”

“I see.” Valerie shook her head. “How sad. Anne was not only a flawless stenographer and typist. Our working relationship was such that, toward the end, she was actually quite helpful to me. When I had difficulty with my poems, we would discuss the overarching theme. Often the perfect word or turn of phrase became clear to me.”

“I doubt that I will be as helpful in that regard,” Ursula said. “But I will do my best.”

Valerie glanced out the window with the air of a prisoner peering through the bars of a cell.

“You will be surprised to hear this, Mrs. Kern, but these past few months, Anne was the closest thing I had to a friend. I never leave the house now, you see. I looked forward to my twice-weekly appointments with Anne. She was my lifeline to the outside world. I feel her loss quite keenly.”

“I understand.”

There was a moment of silence and then Valerie rose from her chair with a dignified but weary air.

“Shall we begin?” she said. “I think best in my conservatory. That is where I receive my inspiration. I trust you will not mind if we work there?”

“Of course not.” Ursula collected the satchel containing her notebook and pencils and got to her feet.

Valerie led the way toward the door of the study. “I frequently employ images and themes taken from nature.”

“I see.”

At the end of the cavernous hall, another silent, somber-faced maid opened the door. Ursula followed Valerie outside and across a stone terrace. They walked toward a magnificent iron-and-glass conservatory that loomed in the foggy afternoon light.

When they reached the door Valerie took out a key.

“The conservatory is my realm, Mrs. Kern,” she said. “It is the one place where I find peace of mind. The poem I am currently working on is titled ‘On a Small Death in the Garden.'”

It was, Ursula concluded, going to be a very long and rather depressing afternoon.

S
he escaped the gloom-filled Fulbrook mansion promptly at three.
Escape
was not too strong a word, Ursula told herself. There was an ominous sensation about the household that was difficult to put into words. No wonder Anne had often referred to the mansion as a mausoleum.

She went quickly down the steps into the heavy fog. Preoccupied with mulling over her first impressions of the Fulbrook household and its inhabitants, she did not notice the sleek black carriage waiting on the other side of the street until Griffith raised his gloved hand to get her attention.

“No need to hail a cab, Mrs. Kern,” he called across the width of the quiet street. “We'll see you home.”

Startled, she came to a halt. “What on earth?”

But the door of the carriage had already opened. Slater, dressed in a high-collared greatcoat and boots, got out. He crossed the street toward Ursula. Light glinted on the lenses of his spectacles, making it impossible to read his eyes.

“I see your new client allowed you to leave on time,” he said. “Excellent. I was concerned we might be obliged to wait upon Lady Fulbrook's convenience.”

He took Ursula's arm, his strong, leather-gloved fingers tightening around her elbow. It was the first time he had touched her in a deliberate manner. She was caught off guard by the jolt of intense physical awareness that shivered through her.

He did not grip her tightly but she sensed the power in his hand. Perhaps it was just the relief of being free of the Fulbrook household, at least for now, that stirred her senses. But she suspected the real reason she was suddenly a little lightheaded with excitement was the knowledge that Slater had come for her today.

The spark of pleasure faded when common sense and logic poured icy water on the tiny flame. It was, she knew, highly unlikely that Slater was here simply to escort her back to the office. In the short time that she had been acquainted with him she had learned that, despite appearances, there always seemed to be something else—possibly something quite dangerous—going on underneath the surface.

She dug in her heels, literally, refusing to move toward the carriage. Slater was forced to stop, too.

“What are you doing here, sir?” she asked. “And pray do not tell me that you felt obliged to protect me from the necessity of traveling by public cab. I have been climbing in and out of cabs for years all by myself with excellent success.”

“Could we perhaps discuss this matter when we are both inside the carriage? There is no need to stand out here in the street in full view of whoever is watching us from inside the Fulbrook household.”

“Good heavens. Someone's watching us?”

Automatically she started to glance back over her shoulder.

“Best not to let anyone know that we are aware that we are being observed,” he said. “Also, it would probably be a good idea not to make it look as though I am kidnapping you. It would, perhaps, be useful to give the impression that we are very good friends.”

She hesitated, wondering if he had spent so much time out of the country that he did not know that the phrase
very good friends
was a euphemism that was often employed to describe an illicit relationship. She studied his hard, unreadable face and concluded that he knew exactly what he was implying. She was quite certain that Slater always knew precisely what he was doing.

Whatever the case, the last thing she wanted to do was cause Lady Fulbrook or anyone else inside the mansion to wonder if she was engaging in a public quarrel in the street.

“Very well, sir,” she said. “But I will want an explanation.”

“Of course.”

Slater steered her across the street to the carriage. Griffith greeted her as enthusiastically as if she had just returned from a long voyage.

“A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Kern,” he said.

“And you, as well, Griffith.”

Ursula collected her skirts, went up the steps of the vehicle and sat down inside. Slater followed her into the shadows of the interior. Griffith stored the steps and closed the door. He vaulted up onto the box, moving with an amazing agility for a man of such enormous size, and shook out the reins. The carriage rolled down the street.

Ursula looked out the window. She thought she saw a curtain shift in one of the windows of the Fulbrook mansion. A chill went through her.

“It seems you were right, Mr. Roxton,” she said. “I believe someone may have been watching my departure.”

“It's possible that the observer was motivated by simple curiosity,” Slater said. “But given your suspicions, we must assume the worst.”

She looked at him through her veil. “
We
must assume the worst?”

“I have decided to assist you in your investigation.”

“Why?” she shot back. “The last time we spoke you made it perfectly plain that you were opposed to my plan.”

“It has become obvious that there is no point trying to talk you out of the scheme so I have concluded that the most reasonable course of action is to do what I can to help you find the answers you seek—always assuming there are answers to be had.”

“Assuming that, yes.” She drummed her gloved fingers on the seat. “I would appreciate some advice and, perhaps, even your assistance but first I want to know why you changed your mind.”

“I thought I explained. I changed my mind because I realized you would not change yours.”

“Why not simply let me conduct the investigation on my own? Why do you feel obliged to help me?”

An unexpected smile came and went at the corner of Slater's mouth. “You sound suspicious of me, Mrs. Kern.”

“I do not think you are giving me the whole story, sir. Why this sudden interest in my problems?”

Slater glanced out the window. He appeared to be reflecting on his answer. When he turned back to face her she saw cool determination in his eyes.

“Let's just say that after some consideration I concluded that I find your project intriguing,” he said.

“I see.”

She had gotten her answer but she was not sure what to make of it. She was not even certain why she was vaguely disappointed in his reason for assisting her. But she had to admit that the logic was sound. It seemed plausible that a man of his nature would be drawn to something as unusual as a private murder investigation. He had, after all, spent the past few years wandering the world. Obviously he had been looking for something, although she very much doubted that he knew what he hoped to find.

“How did your first appointment with Lady Fulbrook go?” Slater asked.

She shuddered. “The house is quite grand but it is incredibly dark and gloomy inside. I cannot decide if the atmosphere is so bleak because the lady of the house is depressed or if it is the atmosphere of the place that is responsible for Lady Fulbrook's sad mood. Her only solace, evidently, is her conservatory.”

“You said she employed Miss Clifton to take down her poetry in shorthand and type up the results?”

“Yes. Lady Fulbrook has attracted the attention of the publisher of a small literary quarterly in New York. The title of the poem that she is working on now will give you a fair indication of her mood. ‘On a Small Death in the Garden.'”

“It does not sound like the sort of thing that would lift the spirits,” Slater said. “But poets are supposed to be a moody, depressed lot. It's a tradition, I think. Is Lady Fulbrook any good at writing poetry?”

“You know how it is with literature and other works of art—the beauty of the finished piece is always in the eye of the beholder. Speaking personally, I am not attracted to depressing poetry just as I am not attracted to books or plays with unhappy endings.”

At that, he actually smiled. It was, she concluded, an annoyingly superior smile.

“You prefer fantastical endings rather than those which illustrate reality,” Slater said.

“In my view there are cheerful endings and sad endings but they are all fantastical by definition—otherwise they would not be classified as fiction.”

That surprised a short, rusty laugh from him. He seemed as surprised as she was by his reaction.

“Very well,” he said. “You established that Lady Fulbrook writes melodramatic poems. Was that all you accomplished today?”

“It was only my first day in the post. I did not expect to discover all the answers in one afternoon. And by what right do you presume to criticize? You are only just now joining the investigation.”

“You are correct, of course. I did not mean to be critical. I was merely trying to gather the facts so that we may form some sort of plan.”

“I have a plan,” she said crisply. “And I think we had best establish one very important fact right now before my investigation proceeds any further. I am in charge of this project, Mr. Roxton. I would appreciate your insights and observations because I respect your intellectual abilities and your extensive experience in finding lost cities and temples and such. However, I will make the decisions. Are we quite clear about that?”

He looked at her for a long moment, as though she had spoken in another language. She had no clue to his thoughts but she suspected that he was about to tell her he could not possibly assist her on her terms. Well, what had she expected him to say? He was a man who was clearly accustomed to giving orders, not taking them.

She sat, tense and unaccountably anxious, and waited for him to declare that a truly equal partnership between the two of them would be quite impossible.

“You respect my intellectual abilities and my extensive experience in finding lost cities and the like?” he said.

She frowned. “Yes, of course.”

“Then you will admit that I have something useful to contribute to the project.”

“Certainly. That is why I mentioned my plan to you in the first place. What are you getting at, sir?”

“I'm not sure. I think I am trying to accustom myself to the notion of being admired for my intelligence.” He paused. “And my extensive experience in finding lost things.”

Her patience evaporated. “Well, what the devil did you expect me to admire about your person, sir?”

He nodded somberly. “Excellent question. What did I expect? I don't think I can answer that at the moment so let us move on to the terms of our arrangement, Mrs. Kern.”

For some reason, the word
arrangement
stopped her cold. For the second time in the span of only a few minutes she suspected that he was employing a euphemism to imply an intimate liaison between the two of them—a liaison that most certainly did not exist.

“I'm afraid I'm not following you, sir,” she said.

She was acutely aware that her voice sounded uncharacteristically breathless. This was ridiculous, she thought. She must not allow him to rattle her in this fashion.

“I cannot guarantee that I will dutifully carry out every order you choose to issue,” he said, “but I can promise that ours will be an association of equals. As for situations in which there is some disagreement involved, we will discuss the issue thoroughly when possible before either of us makes a decision. Will that satisfy you?”

She pulled herself together with an effort of will. “The phrase
when possible
leaves a great deal of vagueness in the
arrangement
, don't you think?”

“There may be situations where I shall be forced to make a decision before I have an opportunity to consult with you. I feel it is only fair that I have some room to maneuver—some freedom to exercise my own intuition and judgment.”

“Hmm.” She gave him a cool smile. “And I must have a similar degree of latitude, of course, as I am the one who will be spending a few hours each week in the Fulbrook household. Obviously I will not be able to simply excuse myself for a few moments to consult with you before I take advantage of the odd opportunity that might present itself.”

His jaw tightened. “Just a moment—”

She smiled, quite satisfied. “I accept your terms, sir. Now, precisely how do you intend to contribute to my investigation?”

Slater was no longer looking quite so assured. His eyes were a little tight at the corners.

“I hope to contribute to
our
investigation by taking a close look at the Fulbrook family,” Slater said very deliberately. “You did say you are convinced that if Anne Clifton was the victim of foul play, there must be a connection to the household, correct?”

“That is my theory, yes.” She brightened. “What do you know of the Fulbrook family?”

“Very little. But my mother was acquainted with Lord Fulbrook's father. He moved in the same circles as my father.”

“I understand.” Enthusiasm ignited Ursula's senses. “We could ask Lilly for her observations on the deceased Lord Fulbrook. She may well know something about the son and the family in general.”

“She will demand an explanation for our curiosity,” Slater warned.