by Amanda Quick
“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.”
THIRTY-TWO
The folly in Lantern Park was cloaked in the shadows of a rainy evening. The light of a nearby streetlamp illuminated the fanciful gazebo.
Ursula stood in the shelter of the umbrella that Slater held aloft. Together they surveyed the octagonal structure. There was no sign of Mrs. Wyatt or anyone else.
“Damn,” Slater said. “I was hoping she would not change her mind at the last minute. Perhaps she lost her nerve.”
“Why send the message agreeing to meet with us if she hadn’t concluded that the money you were prepared to offer was enough to make her take the risk?” Ursula asked.
Slater studied the wet landscape with close attention. His jaw was set in a grim line. He put one hand inside his greatcoat. She knew that he had just wrapped his fingers around the handle of his revolver. She had seen him take it from a locked drawer in his desk just before they set out.
“It’s possible that she was delayed by the weather or traffic,” Slater said. But he did not sound convinced. “We’ll give her a little time. Let’s wait inside the gazebo, out of the rain.”
Ursula looked at him. “You are uneasy about this meeting?”
“I’m uneasy about this entire affair. Would you mind taking the umbrella?”
“No, of course not.”
He wanted to keep his hands free, she realized. There was an air of prowling alertness about him, as if he was prepared for something—anything—to go wrong. He was definitely having qualms about the meeting with Mrs. Wyatt.
They walked around the gazebo and found the steps that led up into the sheltered sitting area. They were not the first to arrive.
Ursula stopped on the second step, her shocked mind searching for a reasonable explanation for what she was looking at.
Her first thought was that a vagrant had sought shelter from the rain and decided to take a nap. But even as she tried to make herself believe that, she knew the truth. The figure on the floor of the gazebo was no transient. The quality of the cloak that covered most of the unnaturally still body was very fine. The feathers in the fashionable hat must have cost a small fortune.
“Bloody hell,” Slater said very softly.
Ursula saw that he had taken the revolver out from beneath his coat. He crossed the gazebo floor and crouched beside the body. She watched him turn the body slightly to examine the back of the woman’s neck. Ursula shuddered at the sight of the dark ribbon of blood.
“The assassin struck before we could speak to her,” Slater said. He moved back toward the steps with long, quick strides. He did not look at Ursula. His attention was on the wooded parkland that surrounded the gazebo. “We must get away from this place. The killer may be watching us.”
Ursula collected her skirts and went quickly down the steps. “Will you notify the police?”
“Yes, although I doubt if it will do much good. I want to go to Mrs. Wyatt’s establishment immediately, before her death becomes common knowledge. I do not have time to take you home. Do you mind stopping at a brothel? We can enter through the alley. You have your cloak and your veil to conceal your face.”
“I most certainly want to accompany you,” Ursula said. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
“It might be useful to take a quick look around Mrs. Wyatt’s private quarters before the police become involved in this matter.”
“I see. What makes you think we will be allowed inside the establishment?”
“It’s a brothel, Ursula. Money can buy anything in such a place.”
“I take your point.” She glanced back at the gazebo. “None of this makes any sense. Why would someone murder Mrs. Wyatt?”
“I can’t say for certain yet but the path through the labyrinth is rapidly becoming clear. First, Anne Clifton, the courier, is murdered. Then Rosemont, the drug maker, is dispatched. And now a woman who supplied prostitutes to the club where the drug is dispensed is found dead.”
“I understand,” Ursula said. “But what is this pattern that you see?”
“Someone appears to be closing down the ambrosia business.”
THIRTY-THREE
Hubbard watched from the shadows of the hansom as Roxton and the woman emerged from the park. He could tell from the swift manner in which Roxton bundled the female into a closed cab that they had discovered the body. It was possible they would go to the police but that was of little concern. The death of a brothel madam might interest the gutter press but it was doubtful that the authorities would conduct a serious investigation.
Even if they bothered to look into the death it would do them little good. Back home in New York where his work had not gone unnoticed and where he enjoyed a bit of a reputation—the press had labeled him The Needle—he was still free to go about unrecognized on the streets. He prided himself on being neat and tidy in his work. He rather suspected that the reason the police did not search very hard for him was because, as a rule, he specialized in removing some of the very same people they were paid to take off the streets.
His employer’s business interests were extensive, crossing all the murky boundaries that were supposed to separate legitimate enterprises from those that operated deep in the criminal underworld.
Damian Cobb employed an army of lawyers, accountants and sharp managers to deal with the competition in the respectable side of his affairs. When it came to his less respectable businesses, he used different types of experts. It was a competitive environment, to be sure. There was ample work for a professional who carried out tasks cleanly and skillfully while avoiding detection.
Hubbard watched the closed carriage pull away into traffic. Then he spoke to the driver through the opening in the roof of the hansom.
“The Stokely Hotel,” he said.
“Aye, guv.”
The driver shook the whip over the horse’s rump. The hansom rolled forward.
Hubbard wondered if the driver intended to cheat him when it came time to pay the fare. The problem with being a visitor in town was that for the most part he had no idea of where he was at any given moment. He knew New York well. He had grown up in the city. But London was a sprawling maze that defeated his sense of direction. He hated the place. Here he was totally reliant upon the cab drivers, who all seemed remarkably well versed in the mysteries of the streets.
Fortunately, Cobb did not intend to remain in London for long. The loose ends were almost all completely snipped off. When the business was concluded they would sail home to New York.
Hubbard looked down at his gloved hands. He was impatient to return to his room at the hotel. His technique ensured that very little blood was spilled. Nevertheless, he always washed his hands afterward.
THIRTY-FOUR
Mrs. Wyatt is dead?” Evangeline glanced at Ursula’s veiled face and then turned back to Slater. “Are you certain?”
“Trust me, there is no mistake,” Slater said. “We had an appointment to meet with her a short time ago. When we arrived at the location we found her body. The police will soon be making inquiries. My associate and I would like to conduct a brief investigation of our own before the
authorities descend on this house and trample over every possible clue.”
“Your associate?”
Evangeline looked at Ursula with a politely neutral expression. But her eyes said it all. Respectable women did not have dealings with the women in Evangeline’s world.
Ursula raised the net veil and crumpled the delicate web up onto the brim of her hat, revealing her face. She smiled.
“I’m Mrs. Kern,” she said. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Evangeline. Thank you for assisting us tonight.”
Evangeline hesitated and then she inclined her head. Some of her wariness faded.
Slater gave no indication that he had noticed the moment of social tension.
“Evangeline was the lady who was kind enough to answer a few questions for me the other evening when I toured the grounds of the Olympus Club,” he said.
“I did not see your face clearly that night,” Evangeline said. “But I remember your voice. You were . . . quite helpful to me. Indeed, I am in your debt.”
They were standing in the hallway outside the kitchen. The Pavilion of Pleasure was not busy yet. The customers would no doubt show up much later in the evening. Ursula occasionally heard footsteps on the stairs and muffled voices but Evangeline had explained that most of the women were in their rooms, dressing. The only place where there was significant activity was the kitchen. Through the open door a sweating cook and several assistants could be seen laboring over trays of canapés.
Ursula had not known what to expect inside a brothel. Nevertheless, she was mildly astonished by how normal it all appeared. She might as well have been in the hall outside the kitchen of any fashionable mansion preparing for a reception or a party.
A few minutes ago they had arrived at the back door of the Pavilion. Slater had handed some coins to the housekeeper and asked to see Evangeline, who had soon appeared. When she saw Slater, her expression had turned wary.
“The thing is, I’m not sure I should let you into Mrs. Wyatt’s rooms,” Evangeline said, glancing over her shoulder. She lowered her voice. “Charlotte’s in charge when Mrs. Wyatt isn’t around.”
“Then please ask Charlotte to come downstairs,” Slater said. “Make certain she knows that there will be a night’s pay in this if she manages to remain discreet.”
Evangeline hesitated. “I know I owe you a favor, sir, but I never thought you’d ask to settle accounts this way.”
Slater slipped more coins into her hand. “For your trouble, Evangeline. Please hurry.”
Evangeline did not argue. She disappeared. When she was gone, Ursula lowered the veil.
“You did not have to reveal yourself to her,” Slater said without inflection.
“Of course I did.”
Slater smiled slightly but he did not say anything else on the subject.
Evangeline returned with an older woman. Charlotte was suspicious at first and genuinely shocked by the news of her employer’s death. But when Slater produced still more money a great transformation came over her. She led the way to a suite of private rooms.
“Why would anyone murder Mrs. Wyatt?” she asked, fitting a key into the lock of a door.
“We don’t know.” Slater ushered Ursula ahead of him into a lavishly decorated parlor. “We were rather hoping you might be able to tell us.”
Charlotte eyed him and then looked at Ursula. “Why would the likes of you two care about the death of a brothel madam?”
“Because Mrs. Wyatt is not the first person to die in this case,” Ursula said. “A woman who worked for me was also murdered. She was a friend of mine. I want to find out who killed her.”
“There is one other fact you may wish to consider,” Slater added.
“What’s that?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s quite possible that your colleague who supposedly jumped into the river was murdered either because her client was dangerously intoxicated or because, like Mrs. Wyatt and the others, she knew too much about the ambrosia trade,” Slater said.
“Nicole,” Charlotte said, her voice very grim. “We all know she did not jump off that bridge, at least not willingly.” She gestured toward the parlor. “I will wait in the hall while you have your look around. Be quick about it. I don’t think it is a good idea for you to be here.”
“Thank you,” Ursula said. She looked at Slater. “I will examine the bedroom while you investigate this room.”
Slater nodded and went swiftly to the desk near the window. Ursula hurried into the adjoining room.
Mrs. Wyatt’s bedroom was another surprise. Like the other parts of the big house that Ursula had viewed, the décor was a tasteful mix of yellow and peacock blue. The four-poster bed was draped with white netting and decorated with an attractive yellow quilt. The carpet featured gold flowers against an azure background. The wallpaper was set off with yellow and blue stripes.
There was, Ursula thought, no hint that the former occupant had been involved in the brothel business. Perhaps that was the intent.
She went to the wardrobe first. Ignoring the array of fashionable gowns, she opened the drawers at the bottom and worked her way through the neat pile of freshly laundered and crisply ironed underclothes.
Finding nothing of note, she crossed to the dressing table.
She discovered the perfume bottle tucked away in the back of a drawer. The little porcelain jar looked almost identical to the one she had found among Anne’s things. Unlike that one, however, Mrs. Wyatt’s bottle was not quite empty. There were a few drops at the bottom.
Cautiously, Ursula removed the stopper. The scent that wafted out held the familiar taint of a dark herb.
“Find something?” Slater asked from the doorway.
Ursula turned quickly and saw that he had a leather-bound volume in one hand.
“A perfume bottle,” she said. “Just like the one I found at Anne’s house. There are a few drops left and they smell like the dried herbs at Rosemont’s shop.”
“Both Mrs. Wyatt and Anne were using the drug.”
“Evidently.”
Slater moved, radiating impatience. “Come, we must leave.”
She glanced at the notebook he held. “What did you find?”
“Wyatt’s journal of accounts.”
“What can that tell you?”
“Possibly nothing. But I have found that money is rather like blood. It leaves a stain.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Brice Torrence descended the front steps of his club shortly before midnight. He was dressed in the black-and-white formal attire he had worn to a ball that evening. He raised a silver-handled walking stick to signal the first cab in the line of vehicles that waited in the street.
Slater moved out of the deep shadows cast by a nearby doorway vestibule.
“I’d like a word with you, Brice,” Slater said.
Brice tensed and turned halfway around. His initial start of surprise was transmuted into anger.
“Roxton,” he said. “What in blazes do you want?”
“Some brief conversation. You owe me that much, don’t you agree?”
“Do you want me to apologize for what happened on Fever Island? To tell you that I’m sorry I left you for dead in those damned temple caves? How was I to know that you were still alive? Hell and damnation, man, I thought you were dead.”
Slater was stunned by the way the words spilled out of Brice. It was not the response he had expected. For a moment he was not sure how to handle it.
“I know you thought that I had been killed by that fall of rock,” he said. “I don’t hold you responsible.”
“I left you to die while I sailed home with a priceless artifact. Some things are unforgivable in a friendship.”
“This is not the conversation I want to have,” Slater said.
“What do you want to discuss? Restitution? How am I su
pposed to make things right between us? How do I change the past?”
“This is not about the past, at least not those aspects of it. I want to talk about the Olympus Club.”
Brice stared at him. “What the devil?”
Slater heard the door of the club open again. He glanced over his shoulder and saw two very drunk men come down the steps. Their laughter was too loud as they debated where to spend the rest of the night.
There was another man on the street, as well. He came quickly along the walkway as though late for an appointment. When he moved through the glary light of the streetlamps, Slater caught a glimpse of him. He was small in stature but he cut a fashionable figure in an excellently tailored suit. He carried a walking stick in one hand.
Slater did not recognize him but he knew the sort—a clubman, making his nightly rounds of the most exclusive gentlemen’s haunts.
Slater turned back to Brice and lowered his voice.
“Will you come to my house with me?” he said. “We can discuss this over some very good brandy.”
“You can say whatever it is you think needs saying right here.”
“If you insist,” Slater said. “But perhaps we could put some distance between ourselves and the front door of your club?”
Brice looked wary but he accompanied Slater a short distance away from the light of the gas lamps that illuminated the front steps.
Slater glanced back to make certain that no one was close enough to overhear the conversation. He saw that the dapper little man with the walking stick was nearing the steps of the club. In another moment he would disappear through the doorway.
Slater shook off the uneasy feeling and focused on Brice.
“I warned her this was probably not a good idea,” Slater said.
“Warned who? You’re not making sense.”
Slater was about to respond but it occurred to him that he had not heard the small man’s shoes on the front steps of the club. Instead, the brisk footsteps were continuing along the walkway, coming closer.
