Garden of Lies

by Amanda Quick

  Slater regarded her with a thoughtful expression and then he walked back across the room. Once again he leaned against his desk and folded his arms. His eyes burned a little behind the lenses of his spectacles.

  “I have been told that those who lose friends and loved ones to suicide often say they never saw any advance indications of the victim’s intentions,” he said.

  Ursula turned to face him. “That may be true. All I can tell you is that in recent weeks Anne was in excellent spirits. She was so cheerful, in fact, that I had begun to wonder if she was involved in a romantic relationship.”

  “That could be your explanation,” Slater said. “A star-crossed love affair.”

  “I admit I had begun to wonder if, perhaps, Anne had made the mistake of becoming intimately involved with a man who was connected to her client’s household. I have rules against that sort of thing, of course, and I do my best to protect my secretaries. Forming a romantic liaison with a client or someone connected to the client is always an extremely reckless thing to do. It never ends well.”

  “I see,” Slater said, his tone very neutral now.

  “The thing is, Anne was a woman of the world. It’s quite possible that she ignored the rules. The client’s husband is a wealthy, powerful man and wealthy, powerful men are often careless when it comes to their affairs.”

  Slater said nothing. He just looked at her.

  She remembered somewhat belatedly that Slater Roxton was a wealthy, powerful man.

  “The thing is,” she continued hurriedly, “Anne was quite capable of protecting herself in such matters. She might enjoy a discreet dalliance but she would never be so foolish as to fall in love with a man she knew could never return her affections.”

  Slater gave that some thought. “You say that Anne was doing rather well financially.”

  “She was comfortably established with some funds put aside for retirement and a bit of jewelry.”

  “Did she leave her possessions and the retirement money to someone?”

  Ursula winced. “I was Anne’s sole heir.”

  “I see.” Slater exhaled slowly. “Well, there goes that theory of the crime. I can’t imagine that you would be undertaking an investigation that might lead to your arrest.”

  “Thank you for that bit of logic. I assure you, I had no reason to want her dead. She was one of my best secretaries—an asset to my agency in every conceivable way. In addition, we were friends. She was the first person who agreed to work for my agency when I went into business two years ago.”

  “You say you do not suspect suicide. What makes you think that Miss Clifton might have been murdered?”

  “I found a short note next to the body.”

  “A farewell note?” Slater asked. His voice gentled with a surprising sympathy.

  “No, at least not in the way you mean. She wrote the note with a pencil. I think she was trying to point me toward her killer.”

  A great intensity infused Slater. “She wrote the note in pencil? She did not use a pen?”

  He did understand, she thought.

  “Exactly my point, sir,” she said. “I do not think that she had time to use a pen. That would have required opening the ink bottle, filling the pen and laying out a sheet of paper in the proper way. A note explaining one’s suicide would be a deliberate act, don’t you think? An experienced secretary would have used pen and paper. The fact that she only scribbled a few words in pencil tells me that she was in a great rush. No, Mr. Roxton. Anne did not leave a farewell note. She tried to leave a message—for me.”

  “This note was addressed to you?”

  “Well, no, but it was written in her own shorthand. She knew I was probably the only person who would be able to read it.”

  “What did the note tell you?”

  “It was in her unique stenographer’s script. It directed me to the location of the notebook and her little collection of jewelry. Oh, and there were two packets of seeds there, as well. I can’t imagine for the life of me why she hid the seeds. It is another mystery.”

  “Where, exactly, did she conceal all those items?” Slater asked.

  “Behind the convenience. Didn’t I mention that? Sorry.”

  Slater looked quite blank. “The convenience?”

  Ursula cleared her throat. “The water closet, Mr. Roxton.”

  “Right. The convenience. My apologies. I’ve spent most of the past few years out of the country. I’m a bit rusty when it comes to polite euphemisms.”

  “I understand.”

  “Regarding this note Miss Clifton left—it’s obvious why she would conceal her jewelry. You said you don’t know why she concealed the seeds. But what of the notebook? Any thoughts on why she would hide it?”

  “An excellent question,” Ursula said, warming to her theme. “I spent most of last night trying to transcribe several pages but the process did not shed any light on the problem. It’s all poetry, you see.”

  “Anne Clifton wrote poetry?”

  “No, her client did. Lady Fulbrook is a wealthy but extremely reclusive woman. She employed Anne to take dictation and transcribe the poems on a typewriter. Anne said that Lady Fulbrook is recovering from a case of shattered nerves and that the doctor prescribed writing poetry as a form of therapy.”

  Slater was briefly distracted. “What sort of poetry?”

  Ursula felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She assumed a professional tone.

  “The poems appear to be devoted to the themes of love.”

  “Love.” Slater sounded as if he was unfamiliar with the word.

  Ursula waved one gloved hand in a vague way. “Endless longing, the travails of lovers who are separated by fate or circumstances beyond their control. Transcendent waves of passion. The usual sort of thing.”

  “Transcendent waves of passion,” Slater repeated.

  Again he spoke as if the concept was utterly foreign to him.

  She was quite certain she caught a flash of amusement in his eyes. She tightened her grip on her satchel and told herself that she would not allow him to draw her into an argument about the merits of love poetry.

  “Although the themes are obvious, there are some odd elements in the poems—numbers and words that don’t seem to suit the meter. That’s why I’m not sure if I’m transcribing the dictation properly,” she said. “As I explained, over time a skilled secretary’s stenography becomes a very personal code.”

  “But you can decipher Miss Clifton’s code?”

  “I am attempting to do so. But I’m not sure what good it will do.” Ursula sighed. “It’s poetry, after all. What can it tell me about the reason for Anne’s murder?”

  “The first question you must ask is, why did Miss Clifton go to the trouble of concealing her notebook?”

  “I know, but I cannot imagine a reasonable answer.”

  “The answer is always concealed within the question,” Slater said.

  “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind. You suspect that Anne Clifton might have become involved in a liaison with the client’s husband, don’t you?”

  “With Lord Fulbrook, yes, it has crossed my mind.”

  Slater was starting to take an interest in the situation, Ursula thought. A great sense of relief came over her. Perhaps she would not be alone in this inquiry.

  “Any idea why Fulbrook would go to the trouble of murdering Miss Clifton? Not to be callous about such matters, but high-ranking gentlemen frequently discard mistresses. There is rarely any need for them to resort to violence.”

  Ursula realized she had a death grip on the handle of the satchel.

  “I am aware of that, Mr. Roxton,” she said through her teeth. “Which makes Anne’s death all the more suspicious.”

  “What of Lady Fulbrook? If she was jealous of her husband’s
attentions to Anne Clifton—”

  Ursula shook her head. “No, I’m quite sure that is not the case. According to Anne, Lady Fulbrook is very unhappy in her marriage. I was given the impression that she is also quite timid. Evidently she goes about in fear of her husband, who has a violent temper. It is difficult to envision such a woman committing murder in a fit of jealousy.”

  “Jealousy is a wildfire of an emotion. Very unpredictable.”

  In that moment Ursula was certain that Slater viewed all strong emotions, in particular those associated with passion, as wildfires to be contained and controlled at all costs.

  She straightened her shoulders. “There is another factor to consider. Anne told me that Lady Fulbrook never leaves her house. That is not just because of her poor nerves. Evidently her husband does not allow her to go out unless he, personally, escorts her.”

  “So, we’re back to Lord Fulbrook as our main suspect. Do you think Anne had an affair with him?”

  “I think it’s possible,” Ursula said. “If that was the case, I doubt very much that she was passionately in love with him. I don’t think Anne would have trusted any man with her heart. But she had her financial future to consider.”

  “She might have found his money interesting.”

  Ursula sighed. “That is a rather blunt way of putting it, sir, but the answer is, yes. Perhaps she became too demanding. Or perhaps she said or did something to set off Fulbrook’s temper.”

  “If that was the case, he would have been likely to attack her physically, probably in a fit of rage. You said there was no evidence that she was assaulted.”

  “No. None.”

  There was another short silence. After a time Slater stirred.

  “You do realize that if you set out to prove that Fulbrook killed Anne Clifton you might very likely put your own life in danger,” Slater said.

  “I just want to know the truth.”

  “There is still the strong likelihood that she suffered a heart attack or a stroke,” Slater said.

  “I know. If my inquiries lead nowhere I will accept that conclusion.”

  “What else can you tell me about Anne Clifton?”

  “Well, among other things she was a very modern woman.”

  “I believe that modern is another euphemism, is it not?”

  Anger flashed through Ursula. “Anne was a woman of high spirits. She was charming, bold, daring, and she was determined to enjoy life to the hilt. In short, sir, if she had been a man, people would have admired her.”

  “You admired her.”

  “Yes, I did,” Ursula said. She composed herself. “She was my friend as well as an employee.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “There is not much more to say. I believe that someone in the Fulbrook household, probably Lord Fulbrook, is responsible for Anne’s death. I intend to find out if my suspicions are correct. And now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way. I assured Lady Fulbrook that I would send a new secretary to her at the earliest possible moment. I need to get things in order at the agency before I take up my duties.”

  Slater frowned. “Lady Fulbrook?”

  “Anne’s client. I just explained—”

  “Yes, I know what you said. Damnation, you intend to take Miss Clifton’s place as Lady Fulbrook’s secretary.”

  “I start tomorrow afternoon. I assured Lady Fulbrook that the transition would be seamless and that I would arrive at her house in Mapstone Square promptly at one-thirty, just as Anne did.”

  Slater walked across the carpet and came to a halt directly in front of Ursula.

  “If you are correct in your suspicions,” he said, “what you are planning is potentially dangerous.”

  His soft tone rattled her nerves. Instinctively she took a step back, trying to put a little more distance between them. He was no longer simply annoyed or reluctantly curious. He was in his own, subtle way angry. At me, she thought, bemused.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Roxton,” she said hastily. “I’m sure you can find another secretary to help you catalog your collection. I will be happy to send you someone else from my agency to fill in while I’m gone.”

  “I am not concerned with finding another secretary, Mrs. Kern, I am concerned about your safety.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  He was not furious because she was abandoning his cataloging project, she thought. He was simply alarmed that she might be taking a risk. It had been so long since anyone had been worried about her welfare that she was flummoxed for a moment. The realization warmed her somewhere deep inside. She smiled.

  “It is very thoughtful of you to be concerned,” she said. “Truly, I do appreciate it. But rest assured that I will take precautions.”

  Ominous shadows appeared in his eyes. “Such as?”

  Her fragile sense of gratitude evaporated in a heartbeat.

  “I assure you I can take care of myself,” she said coldly. “I have been doing just that for some time now. I regret that I tried to explain my plan to you. That was clearly a mistake. I can only hope that you will honor my confidence. If you fail to do so, you may, indeed, put me in some jeopardy.”

  He looked as if she had just slapped his face very hard. Equal measures of astonishment and outrage flashed in his eyes.

  “Do you really think that I would deliberately do anything that would place you in danger?” he asked softly.

  She was instantly consumed with remorse.

  “No, of course not,” she said. “I would never have spoken to you of my intentions if I believed that to be the case. But I admit I had hoped you might be able to provide some helpful advice.”

  “My advice is to give up this wild scheme.”

  “Right.” She closed her hand around the doorknob. “Thank you for your ever so helpful counsel. Good day, Mr. Roxton.”

  “Damn it, Ursula, don’t you dare walk out on me.”

  It was, she realized, the first time he had ever used her given name. It was depressing to know that it was anger, not affection that had caused him to slip into the small intimacy.

  She yanked the door open before he could stop her. She whisked up her skirts and went out into the hall, certain that he would not humiliate himself in front of the servants by chasing after her.

  She was proved correct. Slater stopped in the doorway and watched her but he did not pursue her—not physically, at least. Nevertheless, when she arrived in the front hall she was oddly breathless.

  Webster, the butler, opened the door for her.

  “Leaving early, Mrs. Kern?” he asked. “I believe Mrs. Webster was making up a tea tray for you and Mr. Roxton.”

  He sounded quite heartbroken.

  In the course of the two cataloging sessions it had become obvious that the Roxton household was unusual in many respects, including the staff. They had all been hired by Slater’s mother. As far as Ursula could determine, Lilly Lafontaine recruited heavily from the unemployed, currently between engagements, or retired ranks of the theatrical world.

  Webster was a lean, wiry man with a skeletal face. With his shaved head, a black eye patch covering one blue eye, and a jagged scar that marked his left cheek, he looked more like a pirate than a professional butler.

  Ursula had discovered that the accident that had forced him into retirement had occurred onstage. She did not know all of the details but evidently he had been the victim of a fake sword that had failed to collapse properly.

  She was also well aware that with his forbidding appearance, the number of employers who would have hired him—let alone elevate him to the status of butler—was vanishingly small. She had recognized him on their first meeting as a kindred spirit—an individual who had succeeded in reinventing himself. The knowledge had not only made her like him immediately, it had predisposed her to look favorably upon his employer.

  Ra
pid footsteps sounded in the hall. Mrs. Webster appeared, a heavily laden tea tray in her hands.

  “Mrs. Kern, are you leaving so soon? You mustn’t go. You haven’t had tea. Cataloging Mr. Roxton’s relics is such dry and dusty work.”

  In her own way, Mrs. Webster was as unexpected as her spouse. She was very likely in her mid-forties but she had been gifted with the elegant bones and the fine figure of a woman who would be striking long into old age. It had come as no surprise to discover that she, too, had once earned her living as an actress. She entered a room carrying a tea tray with more of a flourish than most upper-class ladies could summon to make an entrance into a ballroom.

  Like her husband, Mrs. Webster was always onstage. At the moment she was doing an excellent imitation of a Juliet who has just discovered that Romeo is dead.

  “I hope to return at a more convenient time, Mrs. Webster,” Ursula said, aware that Slater was listening to the conversation. “It’s just that something has come up of a personal nature.”

  “Are you ill?” Mrs. Webster demanded, hand clutching at her throat. “I know a very good doctor. He saved Mr. Webster’s life.”

  “I assure you I’m in excellent health,” Ursula said. “I hate to rush off but I’m afraid I really must go.”

  Webster reluctantly opened the door.

  “Until Wednesday, then,” Mrs. Webster said, hopeful to the end.

  Ursula pulled the black netting of her widow’s veil down over her face and escaped out onto the front step before Mrs. Webster could add Parting is such sweet sorrow. She decided not to tell the Websters that she would not be returning on Wednesday or, possibly, ever again, judging by the expression on Slater’s face.

  The carriage that Slater had insisted on arranging for the twice-weekly sessions was waiting in the street.

  The coachman jumped down from the box, opened the door and lowered the steps. His name was Griffith and he was a mountain of a man with a powerful, muscular build. His black hair was tied back at the nape of his neck with a leather thong. Ursula had learned that in his previous career he had worked as a stagehand with a traveling theater company.

  “You’re leaving early today, Mrs. Kern,” he observed. “Everything all right? You’re not coming down with a fever, are you?”