Garden of Lies

by Amanda Quick

  The cab line was across the street, Slater thought. The little man was not headed in that direction, either.

  The footsteps echoed in the fog, moving more quickly now and in a purposeful manner.

  “Brice, do you know the man coming up behind me?” Slater asked. “The small fellow with the walking stick?”

  “What?” Distracted, Brice peered past Slater. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you know just about everyone in Society. If you don’t recognize him, that is not a good sign.”

  “Have you been drinking?” Brice demanded.

  The footsteps were closing rapidly now. Slater glanced over his shoulder again. The little man had one hand clenched around the handle of the walking stick. He grasped the lower end of the stick in his opposite hand.

  He looked very much like a man who was preparing to unsheathe a dagger.

  Or a stiletto, Slater thought.

  He took off his spectacles, dropped them into the pocket of his coat and turned back to Brice, who was speaking impatiently. Something about getting on with it. Slater fixed his attention on him, as though paying attention. But he listened, instead, to the footsteps closing the distance behind him.

  And there it was, the slight shortening of the small man’s stride. Like a jumper collecting power to take the fence, the assassin was readying himself for the kill.

  Slater shoved Brice into the bushes at the border of the pavement, simultaneously twisting away from the attack.

  Brice yelped, outraged.

  Slater whirled around to confront the assassin.

  A needle of steel gleamed in the luminous fog.

  Suddenly aware that he was going to miss his target, the little man tried frantically to change direction.

  Slater took advantage of the opening. He made one hand into a straight edge and brought it down in a hard, chopping blow that caught the assassin on the forearm close to the wrist. Bone cracked. The stiletto and its walking stick sheath clattered on the ground.

  It had all happened very quickly—a matter of seconds—but the commotion was starting to attract attention from the cab line.

  “Footpad.”

  “Send for a constable.”

  Slater started toward the assassin.

  “You crazy son of a bitch,” the little man hissed. “You’ll pay for this, I swear you will.”

  He turned again and ran off into the fog.

  “Damn.” Brice got to his feet, brushing off his clothes. “He got away. He’ll disappear into the stews.”

  “Not likely,” Slater said. “You heard the accent. He’s an American criminal trying to escape in our fair city. I doubt that he’ll get far.”

  “What do you mean? It’s a very big city, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “He’ll stand out on the streets,” Slater said. “After all, he can barely speak the language.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Damian was waiting for her in the conservatory.

  The moment she opened the door and moved into her private Eden, Valerie knew he was there. It was as if she was so attuned to him she could sense him on the metaphysical plane. Her pulse skittered in delight. A euphoria that was more intense than what the ambrosia could induce swept through her.

  “I got your message, Damian,” she whispered into the darkness.

  The indoor jungle was drenched in shadows and moonlight. She had not dared to bring a lantern or a candle. She had been afraid that one of the servants would notice. She could not trust any of them.

  The faint scent of cigarette smoke floated lightly on the fragrant air. A dark figure stirred near a bed of towering ferns.

  “Valerie,” he said. “I have missed you so much these past months. I could not wait any longer to be with you.”

  She flew toward him, her chest so tight with the force of her emotions that she could scarcely breathe.

  “Damian,” she said. “Damian, Damian, my beloved. I have been in torment waiting for you to come to me. Every day without you has been an eternity.”

  He opened his arms and she flung herself into the safety and the rapture of his embrace. He extinguished his cigarette in the fern bed and then his mouth closed over hers.

  His kisses thrilled her senses, just as they had all those months ago in New York when they had become lovers. Two lost souls, he said, who had found each other at last. He had vowed to find a way for them to be together. All that was required was time and careful planning.

  She looked up at him, savoring the sheer size of the man. Like a gallant knight of old, he had come to rescue her from the cruel tyrant she had been forced to marry.

  “It was so clever of you to come to London before you were expected,” she said. “As far as Fulbrook is concerned your ship will not dock until the day after tomorrow. How long have you been in town?”

  “A few days. I’m staying at a hotel under another name. I have been afraid to let you know I was here for fear the secret might slip out. But tonight I could not wait any longer. I had to see you.”

  “I will keep your secrets. You can trust me.”

  “I know.”

  He kissed her again and then he caught her hands in his.

  “I cannot stay long tonight,” he said. “I will not let you take the risk of being discovered, not now when we are so close to the fulfillment of our plans.”

  “Don’t worry, we are safe,” she said.

  “It is imperative that your husband believes that I am still on board ship. He must not suspect that I arranged to arrive a few days ahead of schedule.”

  She touched his hair, hardly daring to believe that he was real, that this was not a dream.

  “How much longer until we can be together?” she asked.

  “Not long, my love.” He touched her mouth with one gloved finger. “Not long at all. The last shipment is in the warehouse. We will take it with us when we sail to New York. There are a few more matters that must be dealt with and then it will all be over.”

  “You must promise me that you will be careful. Fulbrook is not strong like you but he is powerful in his own way and quite ruthless.”

  “Do not fear, my sweet. In a very short time he will no longer be a problem for either of us. But now I must go. I should not have come here tonight but I had to see you. It has been agony, exchanging secret letters and thinking about you here with Fulbrook.”

  “My husband spends his time with his whores and at his clubs, not with me. I have been alone—so very alone. At night I dream of you. During the day I cannot stop thinking about you.”

  “Soon you will be safe with me in New York.”

  “Safe.” She breathed the word with a sense of wonder. “Safe at last.”

  He kissed her again and her heart soared.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  You want me to pack a bag and move to your house now?” Ursula clutched the lapels of her wrapper at her throat. “It’s the middle of the night, Slater. I don’t understand.”

  They were standing in the front hall of her house. Slater’s greatcoat dripped rain on the black-and-white floor. At the foot of the steps a carriage waited, the interior lamps turned down.

  “The assassin came for me less than forty minutes ago,” Slater said. “At this point I cannot be certain who he will go after next, assuming he is still capable of murdering anyone. I think I broke his arm. But that is not enough of a guarantee. I want you in my house. It is much more secure. My locks are excellent. There are more people around to keep an eye on things.”

  Ursula stared at him, trying to get past the first shock. “Are you telling me that someone tried to murder you tonight?”

  “Yes,” Slater said. He did not bother to conceal his impatience. “You need only bring what you need for tonight. Your housekeeper can pack the rest of your things tomorrow.”

 
; “You were nearly murdered tonight?”

  Slater frowned. “It’s all right, Ursula. I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”

  “Is that all you can say?” Her voice was rising. “You were nearly killed. Because of me. Because of my investigation.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Pack a bag. I’d appreciate it if you would not dither about.”

  “I’m not dithering, damn it. I have just sustained a great shock to my nerves. There’s a difference.”

  “Really?” The edge of his mouth curved faintly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Bloody hell.” She swung around and marched up the staircase. “I shall be down in fifteen minutes.”

  “Don’t worry,” Slater said, “I’ll wait. Oh, and you needn’t concern yourself with the proprieties.”

  She stopped halfway up the stairs. “And why is that?”

  “Webster has been dispatched to collect my mother. She will act as a chaperone.”

  “Lilly Lafontaine. Playing the role of chaperone. Something tells me she will find that endlessly amusing.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  It was nearly one-thirty in the morning when they finally gathered in Slater’s library.

  Ursula sat on the sofa with Lilly. Brice was sprawled in a wingback chair, brandy glass in hand. Slater was the only one on his feet. He was clearly energized by the events of the night. He gripped the mantel and contemplated the fire with a fierceness that sent little frissons of electricity through the room.

  She, on the other hand, was dealing with an entirely different kind of tension. Slater had very nearly been murdered tonight—because of her.

  “Do you really think the police will find that man who tried to kill you?” she asked.

  “Eventually.” Slater looked up from the leaping flames. “I think that they will certainly look very hard because the assault occurred right in front of one of the most exclusive clubs in London and because Brice and I both have some notoriety attached to our names. Between the two of us we were able to give the constable a fairly decent description.”

  “Our old archaeological training came in handy,” Brice said. He spoke from the depths of the wingback chair, where he drank brandy in a very methodical manner. “Between the two of us, Slater and I noticed a number of small details. But Slater is right, even without a decent description it would be impossible for a well-dressed killer who speaks with an American accent and who is sporting a broken wrist to conceal himself on the streets for long.”

  Lilly brightened. “I see what you mean. In the end, his accent will give him away. He won’t be able to go to ground. He will have no colleagues who will feel an obligation to protect him. In fact, I expect there will be any number of members of the criminal class who will be only too happy to do the police a favor.”

  “What was that about?” Brice demanded. He swallowed another dose of brandy, loosened his tie and glared uncertainly at Slater. “Why did the American try to murder you?”

  “It all goes back to the Olympus Club,” Slater said. “That is why I wanted to talk to you tonight.”

  “But I am not a member. I don’t see how I can help you.”

  “You may not be a member but your social world is a small one. You no doubt know some men who do belong to the club. I’ve been away from London too long. I don’t have the connections I need to get answers.”

  Brice reflected. “I’ve heard one or two mentions of the Olympus. Very secretive.”

  “We believe that the management of the club makes a certain drug called ambrosia available to the members,” Slater said. “The killings appear to be linked to the trade in the drug. Lady Fulbrook is evidently growing the plant from which the stuff is derived.”

  “Lady Fulbrook?” Brice shook his head. “That makes no sense.”

  “It does if one considers that the ambrosia business is apparently quite lucrative—so much so, in fact, that we believe Fulbrook may be in business with an American businessman named Damian Cobb. Thus far three people are dead—a courier, a drug maker and a certain Mrs. Wyatt, the proprietor of a brothel named the Pavilion of Pleasure.”

  Brice’s expression tightened in a troubled frown. “I’ve heard talk of that house. Supposed to be very exclusive.”

  “When you’re talking about brothels the word exclusive can have a great many different meanings,” Slater said.

  “True,” Brice agreed. “But I seem to recall overhearing someone say that the Pavilion accepts clients by referral only.”

  “Whatever the case, Mrs. Wyatt and the other two murdered people all had one thing in common,” Ursula said. “All three were involved in the ambrosia trade.”

  Understanding settled on Brice. He switched his attention to Slater. “You believe that little man who attacked you tonight killed those three people?”

  “I’m quite certain he murdered Wyatt and Rosemont,” Slater said. “I’m not entirely sure that he killed Anne Clifton. It’s possible she died accidentally from an overdose of the drug.”

  Ursula clasped her hands very tightly together. “I am certain Anne was murdered.”

  Slater let that go without argument.

  “Why would anyone commit murder because of a drug?” Brice asked. “It’s not as if drugs are illegal.”

  “Opium is legal but for centuries wars have been fought over it and fortunes founded on the trade,” Slater said.

  Brice grimaced. “I take your point. The opium business has a very violent history. A damned pity, given the great medical benefits of the drug.”

  “There’s another factor involved here that may explain the violence we are seeing,” Slater continued. “In the past few years the attempts to regulate opium and the products derived from it have started to gain momentum on both sides of the Atlantic. There is talk now of making such drugs illegal altogether. If that happens, the business will be driven underground.”

  “Where men like Fulbrook and Cobb stand to make huge profits,” Ursula said. “Assuming they can control the trade.”

  Lilly swirled the brandy in her glass. “Viewed from that perspective, the ambrosia offers an unusual business opportunity. Opium is widely available from many sources. It will be impossible for anyone to establish a total monopoly. But as far as we know the ambrosia plant is still quite rare and hard to cultivate. If a strong, ruthless individual can establish control of all ends of the trade, he might be able to establish a very lucrative empire.”

  They all looked at her. Lilly smiled sweetly.

  “Slater’s father always said that I had a head for business,” she said. “Edward wasn’t all that interested in such matters. He always took my advice when it came to investing the Roxton fortune.”

  There was a short silence.

  Ursula cleared her throat. “Evidently you did very well when it came to that sort of thing.”

  “Yes,” Lilly said. She swallowed some brandy and set the glass down. “I did very well by the Roxton money. Which is, of course, why Edward was always so generous to me.”

  Ursula smiled. “He paid bonuses and commissions, didn’t he?”

  Lilly raised her brows. “I assure you I earned every penny.”

  “If we might return to the matter at hand,” Slater said.

  “Yes, of course,” Lilly murmured.

  “I am now convinced that Cobb is planning to emerge as the sole winner in this affair,” Slater said. “Evidently he is due to arrive the day after tomorrow. My first assumption was that he sent his assassin ahead to get rid of certain people in the business who were no longer of any use to him—those who knew too much about the trade. Taking care of that end of things before he even set foot on shore would ensure that he never became a suspect in the deaths.”

  Ursula set her brandy glass down very slowly. “But tonight the assassin came after you. I understand that Cobb might have sent a
man ahead to murder people like Mrs. Wyatt and Anne Clifton and Rosemont. Cobb must have been aware of their roles in the ambrosia business for months. But you are new on the scene. How would he know about you?”

  “An excellent question,” Slater said quietly. “I could envision some complicated scenarios, all of which would involve coded telegrams sent to and from Cobb’s ship, but I think it makes sense to go with the simplest and most likely explanation. I suspect that Damian Cobb is already in London.”

  “But that telegram he sent to Lady Fulbrook announcing his arrival the day after tomorrow—” Ursula paused. “Right. It could have been sent by someone on Cobb’s staff in New York.”

  Brice frowned. “Do you really believe that Lady Fulbrook is romantically involved with Cobb?”

  “Yes.” Ursula looked at him. “She is desperately unhappy in her marriage.”

  “I understand, but still, from the sound of things, Cobb is an American criminal.”

  “From the sound of things,” Ursula said evenly, “Fulbrook is a British criminal.”

  Brice flushed. “I take your point, madam.”

  Lilly reached for the brandy decanter. “I did a little research of my own. Fulbrook and his wife were married a few years ago. One cannot help but notice that there has been no offspring from the union.”

  “Hmm,” Ursula said.

  Slater looked at Lilly. “What are you getting at?”

  “The most important thing a man in Fulbrook’s position wants and needs from a wife is an heir,” Lilly said.

  A small hush fell on the scene. Ursula noticed that everyone in the room with the sole exception of Slater appeared to be somewhat uncomfortable. Slater, naturally, was amused.

  Ursula rushed to fill the vacuum. “Lilly is right. Fulbrook might have his own reasons to be dissatisfied with his marriage.”