Garden of Lies

by Amanda Quick

  “Never mind,” he said. He searched for another neutral topic and abandoned the effort. He had never been much good at idle conversation. The experience on Fever Island and the career that he had pursued afterward had not improved his social skills. “What the devil is wrong with you, Ursula?”

  “People keep asking me that. I am perfectly fit.” She gripped the handle of her satchel very tightly. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you asked me to accompany you to the museum?”

  “As a matter of fact, there are two reasons,” he said. “The first is that I wished to talk to you in private. I have some news.”

  That got her attention. She watched him intently through her veil. “You have discovered something about Anne’s death?”

  “I cannot say, not yet. But I have learned something about Fulbrook which may or may not prove useful.”

  “As it happens, I started transcribing some of Anne’s notes last night and I, too, discovered something but it is rather baffling. Before we exchange details, you had better tell me the second reason we are off to visit a museum at such an early hour.”

  “I thought touring the new exhibition of antiquities together would enhance the impression that our association is personal, not just professional.”

  She absorbed that. “I see. Why do you think that is wise?”

  “Because based on what I learned last night it’s possible this investigation may take a dangerous turn. If anyone is watching you, I want that person to be well aware that you have a friend who would be in a position to cause a great deal of trouble should anything happen to you.”

  She stared at him. “You’re serious.”

  “Very. Damn it, Ursula, what the devil did you discover last night that has rattled your nerves? I did not think there was anything that could do that.”

  She tightened her gloved hands on the satchel positioned on her lap. “I came across a reference to a perfume shop in Anne’s notebook. There was an address. It struck me as odd.”

  He waited. It was the truth, he concluded. But not all of it. When she did not add anything else, he tried another question.

  “Was Anne Clifton fond of perfumes?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. That is not the point. It was just strange to find the address written down in the same notebook as Lady Fulbrook’s poems. Tell me, what is your news?”

  She was changing the subject a little too quickly, he decided. But this was not the time to press her. The carriage clattered to a halt in front of the museum. Slater reached for the door handle.

  “I’m afraid my news falls into the same category as yours—odd and unusual but perhaps no more enlightening,” he said. “I will explain once we are inside.”

  THIRTEEN

  It’s a fake, you know,” Slater said.

  Ursula contemplated the statue of Venus. The nude goddess was portrayed in a graceful crouch, her head turned to look back over her right shoulder. There was a suggestion of surprise on her face, as though she had been startled by an intruder just as she was about to bathe. The sculptor had certainly gone out of his way to emphasize the lush, ripe contours of the female form. The sensuality of the figure was unmistakable, bordering on the erotic.

  It was still early in the day. The gallery featuring the Pyne Collection of antiquities was only lightly crowded. Ursula was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was viewing the nude Venus in the company of the most fascinating man she had ever met. She was grateful for the veil that concealed her flushed cheeks.

  “No,” she said. She made an effort to sound as if her interest was purely academic in nature. She was not about to let him see that she was flustered. “I did not know it was a fake. How can you tell?”

  “The modeling of the hair is clumsy and the expression on the face is insipid,” Slater said, clearly impatient with spelling out the details of his analysis. He sounded very academic. “The proportions of the breasts and hips are exaggerated. It’s the sort of figure one would expect to see decorating the hallway of an exclusive bordello.”

  “I see.” Ursula turned away from the Venus. “Well, I expect the Romans had their own houses of prostitution to furnish.”

  “Certainly. But they usually installed a better grade of statuary. I can tell you that under no circumstances would they have decorated one of their establishments with this particular figure.”

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “Because it has all the hallmarks of one of Peacock’s statues.”

  Ursula blinked. “Who is Peacock?”

  “Belvedere Peacock. He’s been producing what he is pleased to call faithful artistic reproductions for years. He has managed to pass his pieces off to some of the most noted collectors in the country. I shall have to drop by his workshop and congratulate him on having one of his statues on exhibit in this museum. Quite an accomplishment.”

  Ursula moved a few steps away to inspect a handsome brass and wood chariot. The little card declared the piece to be Etruscan.

  “Will you say anything to the museum staff about the Venus?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” Slater said. He came to stand beside her. “I only deliver an opinion on such things when I am asked to consult. In this case, no one has requested my opinion of the Venus.” He studied the chariot for a moment and shook his head. “In any event, the task of identifying all the fakes and fraudulent pieces currently residing in museums and private collections would consume far too much of my time. The mania for collecting antiquities has produced a brisk trade in faithful artistic reproductions.”

  Ursula raised her brows. “Are you going to tell me that this chariot is not Etruscan?”

  Slater glanced dismissively at the chariot. “Looks like Albani’s work. He has a shop in Rome.”

  Ursula smiled, briefly amused.

  “I do believe that there is something to be said for keeping one’s opinions to oneself,” she said. “I would have taken considerably more enjoyment from this exhibition if you had not informed me that most of the pieces are fakes.”

  Slater gave her a sharp, impatient look. “I didn’t bring you here to study the artifacts.”

  “Right.” She moved on to a large urn painted with a number of male and female figures engaged in what appeared to be complicated gymnastic poses. “You said you had matters to discuss.”

  Slater joined her in front of the urn. “The first is that I followed Fulbrook to a private club last night. The Olympus.”

  “What of it? Most high-ranking men belong to a number of clubs.”

  “This one is rather unusual in that there were several women present.”

  “Good heavens.” Ursula turned quickly. “How very modern. I have never heard of a gentlemen’s club that admits ladies.”

  “I don’t think the Olympus deserves any credit for advancing the cause of women’s rights. The females looked as fashionable and as expensively dressed as ladies at a Society ball but they were all employees of an exclusive brothel known as the Pavilion of Pleasure. The proprietor is a certain Mrs. Wyatt.”

  “Oh, I see.” She hesitated, well aware that she should not follow up with the first question that came to mind. But she was unable to resist. “You are acquainted with this brothel and the madam in charge?”

  “No. But I intend to make further inquiries.”

  “Why?”

  She had not intended to put an edge on the question but it came out in a singularly demanding manner. As if she had any right to ask him why he wanted to make further inquiries into an exclusive brothel, she thought. Really, it was none of her concern. Many men patronized brothels. It should come as no surprise to discover that Slater was among that number.

  “Because we are investigating Fulbrook,” he said, as if she was not terribly bright. “His membership in the Olympus Club may be important.”

  “What makes
you say that?” she asked.

  “While I was on the grounds of the club last night I had occasion to speak to one of the women who works for the brothel. She calls herself Evangeline.”

  Ursula glanced at him very quickly. “What do you mean she calls herself Evangeline?”

  “I doubt that’s her real name. She’s a professional courtesan, Ursula. By definition, she is playing a role.”

  “Yes, of course, I see what you mean.”

  Just as I am playing a role, she thought. I am not the woman you believe me to be. Would Slater care if he knew the truth about her? There was no way to be certain how he would take the news of her past. Most gentlemen would be scandalized, of course. But Slater was different. Nevertheless, to tell him the full story would be to risk the total destruction of their fragile relationship.

  She reminded herself that she had a plan to take care of the problem that had arisen during the night.

  “Evangeline told me that the club dispenses a drug they call ambrosia to its members. It affects different people in different ways,” Slater continued. “It induces pleasurable fantasies and visions in most of the men but some turn violent under the influence. She said that the newest version of the drug seems to be more powerful. She is convinced that recently one of the women from the Pavilion was murdered by a club man who was using the ambrosia.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “The women of the Pavilion were told that their colleague—Nicole—jumped off a bridge but they don’t believe it.”

  Ursula considered that for a moment. “That is interesting but what does it have to do with Anne’s death?”

  “Perhaps nothing. But Fulbrook is a member of the Olympus Club. Presumably he uses the drug. At least one woman who earned her living providing sexual favors for the members of the club is dead in recent weeks. Anne worked in the Fulbrook household and now she is dead. Those facts may be links in a pattern.”

  “Anne certainly was not beaten to death. There were no marks on her body. I checked. If she was murdered it was most likely by poison. Perhaps the drug can kill in large doses?”

  “It’s possible. Do you think that Fulbrook might have lured her into working as one of the courtesans at the club?”

  “No,” Ursula said. “Absolutely not.”

  “I mean no disrespect to your friend, but you did say that she possessed a rather adventurous temperament. You indicated that she might have been involved in a romantic liaison.”

  “Exactly—a liaison,” Ursula said. “She was not working as a prostitute.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Ursula moved one hand to sweep the issue aside. “Among other things, she lacked the wardrobe for that sort of career.”

  That stopped Slater cold.

  “Huh,” he said. “Never considered that aspect of the situation.”

  “No doubt because you are a man. You said the woman you met last night—Evangeline—and the other prostitutes on the grounds of the club were dressed as fashionable ladies at a ball.”

  “Right. I’m no judge of fashion but it was obvious that Evangeline’s gown was expensive. She also had some long gold earrings set with crystals.”

  “I can assure you that Anne did not own any ball gowns, expensive or otherwise. She possessed some jewelry but it wasn’t the sort a woman would wear to a soiree. Her pieces were of a more practical nature—the kind of items a woman can wear to go out shopping or to tea with friends. There is a pretty little watch that could be pinned to a coat. A cameo. A locket. Her most expensive piece was a lovely chatelaine with a little silver notebook and pencil attached. A former client gave it to her. She loved that piece. But none of her jewelry was suited to a ballroom and neither were any of her gowns. Trust me when I tell you that if she had owned any items that fashionable or expensive she would have been unable to resist showing them to the rest of us at the office.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive,” Ursula said.

  “Nevertheless, it strikes me as more than a coincidence that two women who are at least remotely linked to either Fulbrook or his club are dead. I think we should arrange to speak with Mrs. Wyatt, the proprietor of the brothel.”

  “If she is making a great deal of money supplying prostitutes to the men who belong to the Olympus Club it is unlikely she will discuss her business affairs with us.”

  “I’m hoping Lilly can persuade Mrs. Wyatt to talk to us.”

  “Your mother is acquainted with her?”

  “My mother’s connections reach far and wide,” Slater said.

  Ursula smiled at the wry twist on his words.

  “Yes, I did get that impression when I took dictation from her,” she said. “She was certainly one of the most interesting clients I’ve had.”

  Slater started to make another comment but he stopped abruptly. Ursula realized that he had gone quietly alert, his attention snagged by something or someone at the far end of the hall.

  When she turned to follow his gaze she saw a well-dressed, distinguished-looking gentleman and an attractive lady in a yellow and blue gown. The man was tall, blond and athletically built. He carried himself with the sort of languid self-possession that came naturally to one who descended from several generations of wealth and status. The lady appeared to come from the same world. The two were examining the sensually rendered Venus.

  “Time for us to leave,” Slater said.

  It was a command, not a suggestion. Nor did he wait for a response. Instead, he gripped Ursula’s elbow and headed toward the rear entrance of the gallery. She did not resist.

  “Something amiss?” she asked softly.

  “Someone, not something.”

  “I take it we are fleeing the exhibition because of the gentleman and the lady who just arrived?” she asked.

  “We are not fleeing, damn it.”

  But Slater immediately slowed his pace. She knew he had not liked the implication that he was running away from the newcomers.

  “Well, then?” she prompted. “Why are we rushing off? Do we have a pressing appointment?”

  “Take it from me, it’s best that Torrence and I do not find ourselves in the same room together,” Slater growled.

  “So that is Lord Torrence, your partner on the Fever Island expedition?”

  “And his wife, Lady Torrence.”

  “I understand now why you wish to leave,” Ursula said. “If the gossipmongers and the press discover that you and Torrence were both seen in the same gallery together there would no doubt be some wild speculation.”

  “Precisely.”

  “But what is the point of trying to avoid Lord Torrence? There are bound to be future encounters between the two of you. The Polite World is a very small town in most respects. I suggest that you simply act as if there is nothing out of the ordinary occurring.”

  “Thank you for the advice,” Slater said. He sounded as if his jaw was clenched tight. “But as it happens I don’t give a damn about Torrence or the gossips. It is you I am attempting to protect.”

  “Me?” She was dumbfounded. “But I am not involved in your dispute with Torrence.”

  “That may not prevent Torrence from attempting to find a way to use you to strike at me.”

  This time she was genuinely shocked. “Surely that nonsense about the bad blood between the two of you is just so much fodder for the press and the penny dreadfuls.”

  “Not all of it. For what it’s worth, it’s a one-sided feud. He is the one who has avoided me since my return, Ursula.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind. Just a fleeting thought. None of my concern, really.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Slater whisked her along the gallery, past urns, statues and assorted bits and pieces
of Roman armor. They very nearly made good their escape. But just as they were about to go through the door a very large, very rotund figure appeared directly in their path.

  “Roxton.” The round man’s jovial voice boomed the length of the gallery and bounced off the walls. “Come to examine my collection, eh? I am honored, sir. Deeply honored. I’d heard that Torrence planned to put in an appearance but I must say it’s a surprise to see you here. I was told that you don’t get out much these days. Absolutely delighted that you made an exception for my little exhibition. I trust you will introduce me to your companion?”

  They were caught, Ursula thought. Heads were turning. There was no escaping the scene. She could tell that Slater knew he was trapped. He brought her to a halt.

  “Mrs. Kern, allow me to present Lord Pyne, the generous collector who donated these antiquities to the museum,” Slater said in cold, formal tones.

  “Lord Pyne,” Ursula murmured.

  “Mrs. Kern, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Pyne bowed over Ursula’s gloved hand. Then he straightened abruptly. “Who’s that admiring my Venus? I do believe it’s Torrence and his charming wife. Well, well, well. Roxton and Torrence. Two of the most esteemed antiquities experts in England have come to inspect my artifacts. I am deeply gratified.”

  “It is a very interesting collection,” Slater said. He tightened his grip on Ursula’s arm. “But I’m afraid Mrs. Kern and I must be off. We have a pressing engagement.”

  “Of course, of course. But first you must give me your opinion on the Venus.” Pyne raised his voice, although that was not necessary. “I should like your views, as well, Torrence.”

  “The figure is quite . . . robust,” Slater said.

  Torrence and his wife took a few steps toward where Slater and Ursula stood with Pyne.

  “Your Venus certainly draws the eye,” Torrence allowed. He avoided looking at Slater.

  “And the ladies?” Pyne chuckled. “I would be remiss if I did not ask for your opinions.”

  “I know very little about antiquities,” Lady Torrence said in a strained voice. “That is my husband’s area of expertise.”